Squatter
by keru.m
Summary: The pipes burst at Harm's place. He takes up residence in Mac's apartment ... and more? 11 parts.
1. The Offer Still Stands

**Squatter**

Disclaimer[Insert generic disavowal of ownership here

A/N: I'll start by saying that I really like the stories premised on H&M having to share the same space for a while; some because they're a guilty pleasure and others because they're a pleasure to read. Then I thought, hey, I want to get on that bandwagon. So, in the words of the venerable Green Day, I'm hitchin' a ride.

I set this before the Four Percent Solution. So: before Mac went to see McCool for the sleeping pills and had that mammoth session, before Mac found Harm and Alicia having dinner; after Mattie left...As a result of the time period, this is one heck of an angsty and sometimes sad piece. It probably ended up being a lot heavier than I had initially intended, but you know how it is: sometimes these things get away from you. I hope none of it is construed as gratuitous angst.

Does it have a happy shipper ending, you ask? I'm offended the thought even crossed your mind. Shame on you. I'll bring the holy water, you find a priest.

I haven't seen all the episodes, so I don't know if we do find out why exactly Harm has the eating habits he does. I'm going to assume it's because he's a proponent of healthy eating. So, when he has the choice, minimal red meat intake, no factory-farmed stuff and definitely nothing processed. Why did I take the space in an author's note to highlight, in detail, this rather inconsequential point? I don't really know. It comes up in a conversation between H&M in this story. Chalk it up to characterization.

And one really bad word in this first part.

--

--

**Squatter – Part 1**

**The Offer Still Stands**

JAG HQ

Thursday

1300 Local

Mac crossed the bullpen, heading towards Harm's office to pick up a file. There was a time when going to his office used to be the highlight of her day. A little casual conversation, a little teasing; it invariably netted her a smile. These days, though ...well, who knew anymore. She sure has hell didn't.

Mac sighed. That, she thought, was a lie. If she were to be honest, these days going to his office made her feel nervous and unsettled. Seeing him made her palms sweat and her stomach churn.

It took her right back to fourth grade with Mrs. Fennimore, when she'd walked into class on her birthday and tried to find a way to explain why she didn't have the cupcakes she was expected to bring and share to celebrate the occasion. All the other kids brought cupcakes on their birthdays; all the other kids were expecting her to bring cupcakes on hers. How was she supposed to explain that her father had broken her mother's fingers, making baking impossible? Mac had tried her hand at making them herself, and she'd failed. So she'd entered the classroom knowing what was expected of her, and knowing she couldn't deliver despite her best attempts. Her best attempts had only left her with an ugly, very carefully hidden bruise on her collarbone, and a deep-seated sense of guilt. No cupcakes, no way to explain.

She'd hated the fourth grade.

"Are you sure?"

His voice snapped her out of her thoughts. She'd made it to Harm's doorway on autopilot. Automarine, Harm would say.

He had his back to her, the phone pressed to his ear. He sounded tired and resigned; it didn't suit him.

"Yeah. No, you're right, that makes more sense. How long will it take?"

She had almost convinced herself to just sneak in, pick up the file from off his desk and sneak away, when he turned in his chair and caught her eye. His demeanour brightened slightly, or maybe she imagined it, and he waved her in. She wiped her palms against her skirt, thankful that she'd skipped breakfast.

"Alright," he continued speaking on the phone, but his eyes were on her as she entered his office.

She settled on standing in front of his desk, hands clasped behind her back, feeling a little silly. Hopefully, he'd get the message and just hand her the file without trying to settle in for a chat.

"Well, you have the key. No, I won't be staying there, not without heat and water." He gestured for her to take a seat. Mac fought her impatience. She did not want to sit and shoot the breeze. However, she knew that if she didn't sit, he'd hound her with the twenty questions. So she sat down. But she still scanned his desk for her file, hoping for a quick, painless escape.

"Monday?!" He almost yelled. She looked up at him, startled by the outburst. "That's four days!"

He glared at the far wall. She decided that glaring suited him much better than sounding tired and resigned.

"Fine. Yeah. Sorry about that. Four days, though ... Yeah, I know. Okay. Monday, 1400. What? Oh, right; that's 2PM."

Harm hung up forcefully and expelled an angry breath. "Dammit."

"You okay?" He looked so put out that she couldn't help but voice her concern.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. Dammit. My apartment's the one with the problem." He kept glaring at his phone, as though willing it to burst into flame.

"The pipes burst," he continued, still staring at his phone. "Must've been the unexpected cold spell we've been having the last couple of days. It's all a mess. Heating system was collateral damage. I have to find a place to stay for the next few days." He paused and sighed, running a hand through his hair. "When it rains, it really pours."

He said the last part so softly, she thought he may not have intended it for her ears. Hearing him sound so sad tugged at something in her heart.

"You could always stay at my place." The words left her mouth without her permission, and hung in the air awkwardly. Over a year ago, the offer would have been perfectly normal. Expected, even.

His head snapped up and he stared at her. Surprise flitted across his face, but was quickly replaced by confusion. He watched her for one long moment. "Are you saying that for form's sake, or are you really offering?"

She returned his studious stare, not offended by the question. Truthfully, it had been a knee-jerk reaction, an instinctive response to his distress. She knew that if she had been getting more sleep, she would have said something very different. Something along the lines of 'the Best Western off exit 177 has good rates – you can use my AAA card to get a discount'. But the more she thought about it, well, Harm would have made the same offer if their places were reversed. More importantly, she really did want to help him.

She could see the change in him. She knew what he wanted, could see it in his eyes. He'd confirmed it at the admiral's Dining Out. She also knew she couldn't give it to him. Paraguay had taken away some vital part of her. Those months away from him, near Clay had darkened another part. Sadiq had destroyed yet another. And infertility had killed whatever was left. She couldn't meet his expectations. But whenever he looked at her, she felt guilty. This was the fourth grade all over again. So if offering him the fold-out couch for a few days would allay some of that guilt, she would more than gladly do it.

"I am sincerely offering you all the comforts of a lumpy fold-out couch and a fridge full of take-out." She put her hand over her heart in a gesture of exaggerated sincerity.

"You make it sound so inviting." He was grinning at her, his fingers nimbly twirling a pen.

She remembered a starry night in the desert before promptly dismissing the thought.

"At least more inviting than a frozen apartment without running water." Pointing out the obvious was a safer course than dwelling on what was lost.

"I'll give you that, Mac." He ceased twirling his pen. His expression turned sober, "Are you sure this is okay with you? Because I can book a room somewhere."

"I'm positive, Harm. I wouldn't have offered otherwise." A blatant lie, she knew. But guilt was a powerful master and she needed to do something for him.

He didn't look convinced – she could see it in his raised eyebrow, in the set of his shoulders, in the way he leaned back into his chair. She stared right back at him, unblinking. It occurred to her that maybe he was debating over whether or not he would feel comfortable staying at her apartment. He had never really spent much time there, after all. They had usually gotten together at his place.

"Thanks, Mac," he finally relented, pulling her from her thoughts. "You have a new roommate," he straightened in his chair and although neither had moved from their positions, he suddenly seemed a lot closer to her.

She self-consciously shrugged off his thanks, and focused on her reason for coming into his office in the first place. "I think Jen handed you the Carver file by accident."

"Right." He nodded. "I was wondering about that. I returned it to her inbox. Sorry about the wasted trip."

"Don't worry about it. I was beginning to grow roots at my desk anyways." She rose from her seat. "I don't know how late I'll be here, but I have a spare key in my desk. Let me get it for you."

"I think I still have your spare key, from ..." she could see him struggle to find a word that wouldn't make this situation any more awkward. "From before."

"I, ah, changed the locks recently." She looked away for a moment, stared at her shoes to keep him from reading her thoughts on her face. They had hardly been in a place where she would have told him that she'd changed her locks after Sadiq had broken into her apartment, let alone give him a new spare key. She didn't want to give him an explanation, since it would make her seem weak – she'd changed her locks after Sadiq had died ... after _she_ had killed Sadiq ... She turned her gaze back to him, and the look of hurt in his eyes suddenly made the explanation tumble out of its own will.

"Sadiq." She looked away again uncomfortably, but didn't miss seeing the look of anger and worry slide into place. It was his standard protective expression. She sighed. Time to end this conversation.

"You don't need me to tell you to make yourself at home." She threw him a pointed look, and headed to her office to retrieve the key.

The moment she set foot in the bullpen, she was relieved to be out of his office. She didn't know how she felt about him staying at her apartment until Monday, and being in the same room as him wasn't helping her come to a decision.

But how bad could it be, right? They had been good friends, once. As far as she was concerned, she would still travel across the world to watch his six, harbour him if were a fugitive, and try to save him from his impetuous obsessions. Nothing either of them could do would change that. Even though he no longer needed her to watch his six or harbour him or save him anymore, she still would. It was just as well. She couldn't give him what he wanted, what he expected.

Maybe it would be best if she looked for reasons not to be around her apartment so much over the next few days. Stay late at work tonight. Make plans with Harriet for Saturday. Or just make up plans for Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Hell, he probably had plans. She hoped they didn't spend too much time together at her place, otherwise, the numerous elephants in the room were bound to trample them both long before Monday.

What the hell was she thinking in inviting Harm to stay at her place?

And why the hell had Harm accepted?

--

JAG HQ

Thursday

1910

Mac stared at her computer screen. She rubbed her eyes and leaned back into her chair. She could not spend all night here. She stared at the ceiling. That would be childish and she was an adult. Adults don't act childish. Not usually. She should go home. It was rude to just leave Harm there alone. It was inconsiderate. It was just plain bad manners. As it was, he'd left just over an hour and a half ago. One hour, forty-nine minutes, 38 seconds ... 39 seconds ... 40 seconds...

Suck it up, Mackenzie. You're going to go home. To your apartment. Where Harm currently is.

She wondered if it was possible for palms to sweat and stomachs to churn non-stop for four days straight.

No, that had to be physically impossible. Not possible. She would go home and everything would be fine. She'd keep things light. She'd be herself, act normal. Whatever the hell that meant.

Mac powered off her computer and began clearing her desk. Everything would be fine as long as they didn't fall into any deep, meaningful conversations. Maybe she could fake laryngitis.

What had she gotten herself into?

--

Mac's Apartment

Thursday

1956 Local

Mac opened her front door and stepped inside her apartment. Her palms were sweating and anxiety was doing odd things to her stomach. She was willing herself to calm down, when she realized that something in her apartment smelled really good. Was Harm cooking dinner? The realization made her feel guilty and inadequate. Why was he cooking dinner?

"Harm?" She toed off her shoes and began unbuttoning her jacket.

"In the kitchen," he called out.

"You don't need to cook," she began as she headed for the kitchen.

"What's that?" He turned to her when she entered.

"I said you don't need to cook." She leaned against the door jamb and watched him.

"You said to make myself at home, so I am." He adjusted the heat on the burner as he spoke, his attention only half on her. "And I looked inside your fridge, Mac. It's a wonder you're surviving."

She didn't tell him that she barely was, by the skin of her teeth. Instead, she swallowed her unease and remained silent.

"I stopped by the grocery store and stocked up," he continued, sautéing the contents of the pan he was holding.

"Thanks, Harm." She should've known he would do such a thing. She should've left work early and gone to the grocery store herself. Mac shook her head and headed to her bedroom to change. She needed to get away from him.

Just under nine minutes later, Mac emerged from her room. She'd cleansed and moisturized, hung up her uniform, and put on her loosest sweatpants and the thickest hooded sweatshirt she owned. She sighed deeply as she meandered her way to the kitchen. There was nothing quite like being buried under thick layers of cotton, warm and soft. She took a deep breath and straightened her spine right before entering the kitchen. Just act normal.

She stepped into the kitchen just as Harm was dishing the dinner onto two plates. Mac went about setting the table.

Normal Mac would make friendly conversation.

"What'd you make?" She asked as she put the utensils on the place settings.

"The Chef's Special tonight," Harm began with a flourish, "is Beef Stroganoff à la Rabb."

Normal Mac would've teased him about his eating habits.

"And what protein substitute does 'à la Rabb' stand for?" She poured them each a glass of water and waited to hear the dreaded 'soy' or 'tofu' or, worse still, 'the packet just says protein substitute'.

"No substitutes, tonight, Marine," he said proudly. "This is the real stuff."

Normal Mac would ... she had no idea how normal Mac would react to that revelation. This had never happened before.

Mac turned off the faucet and stared at Harm as he spooned stroganoff onto one plate.

"Real beef?"

"That's right." He replied absently, now busy spooning his real, bona fide beef stroganoff – or so he said – onto the second plate.

"You cooked real beef?"

He looked at her, amusement softening his features.

"Yes, Mac. Real beef. I, Chef Rabb, cooked real beef."

"You don't like red meat." She stated the obvious.

"I don't like that garbage you call red meat. Do you know how they raise those farm animals? How they treat them? What they feed them? And then you end up eating that? This is the good stuff, Mac. Free range. Grass fed."

Okay. Odd: he never cooked red meat, not that she remembered. He just went on and on about how horrible the stuff was when she ate it. But she could roll with the punches. Normal Mac could never help but to goad Harm when he mounted on his soapbox.

"Or so the butcher says," she pointed out.

"Mac!" He was truly appalled.

She fought a smile that threatened. This was important to him – which also meant that she'd heard this spiel many a time. Acting normal wasn't so hard after all, maybe this wasn't even completely an act. She picked up their glasses of water and headed to the kitchen table to set them down.

"I apologize, Harm. You're right." She teased. "The chemicals, drugs, hormones and god knows what they feed the animals. The exploitation of cheap labour. The destruction of the environment. The commodification of farm animals …" She paused and tried to smother her joking impertinence under a mask of sincerity. "Did I leave anything out?" She did her best to sound innocent.

"Now you're just making fun." He frowned at her, much as one would at a misbehaving two-year old, and came up beside her to set the plates on the table.

"Actually, I'm humouring you," she informed him with exaggerated patience. "Big difference."

"Mac."

"Harm, I'm just kidd—" She stopped as she felt his hand encircle her wrist. She looked down, confused, and then up at his face.

"What?" she whispered, worried by the sudden change in his demeanour.

His brow was slightly creased, his eyes dark with concern, deep with emotion. She knew this look. He was worried about her. Mac tried her best to look away, to free her wrist from his grasp, but his grip was firm. She gave up trying when he lightly ran his fingers, roughened by years of use, under her eyes. It was an infrequent, yet familiar feeling. Normal Mac would've leaned into his touch.

"Mac." He breathed her name, his tone heavy with an aching tenderness. She thought the weight of it would cause the two of them to sink right through the floor.

What had gotten into him? He was staring at the skin beneath her eyes with such intensity … It struck her then: she had been using concealer to cover the dark circles beneath her eyes, caused by lack of sleep. He hadn't seen her without make up in a very long time.

Mac jerked her wrist from his grasp, she turned away from him and sat down, ramrod straight, at the table.

"Let's eat, Harm." Her tone brooked no room for argument. Normal Mac be damned. She couldn't do this.

"Mac-"

"The food's getting cold." She tried her best to sound conciliatory, and ate a forkful of noodles and stroganoff to emphasize her point.

"You've outdone yourself, Harm. This is fantastic." She tried to sound as sincere as possible, and looked up to see him reluctantly take a seat. Thank god. She relaxed, leaned back into her chair.

He didn't reply. Instead, they ate in silence. Occasionally, she stole a glance at him. He seemed to be taking out his frustration on the food on his plate. Guilt was getting louder and louder, clamouring to be heard. Her appetite fled, but she forced herself to eat. She would make this up to him. She just couldn't talk about it. She couldn't. But she would make up this ruined dinner to him. Just like normal Mac would have. Just like she needed to.

--

Mac's Apartment

Friday

0225 Local

She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Her gaze roamed over the walls of her bedroom, over her dresser and closet doors. She would not admit it to anyone, but ever since she had found those diamonds in her room, evidence of Sadiq's intrusion, she would sometimes feel a nagging sense of discomfort in here. On more than a few nights, she would delay going to bed only to avoid the uncanny feeling that tickled her spine. Sadiq was dead. She had killed him. There was nothing to worry about.

The stalking episode from years ago with Coster probably didn't help her attempts to find comfort in her own bedroom, either. 'Even God forgives'. She wondered if Coster and Sadiq shared the same God. Damn psychotic men and their obsessive fixations. If Sadiq were alive, she'd kill him again. The thought further unsettled her. She pushed off the covers and climbed out of bed. A cup of cocoa would do the trick.

Mac padded towards the kitchen in her slippers and paused at the sound of light snoring. Harm. She'd forgotten he was here. Evidence, she supposed, of just how much that asshole terrorist had gotten to her. Hell would freeze over before she conceded defeat to him. She'd sleep one whole night, uninterrupted and in her own bed if it killed her. Mac sighed and turned on the kettle. Maybe she should invest in a new bedspread. Paint the walls a lighter colour. Rearrange the furniture. It was long overdue anyways.

She took out a mug, a sachet of instant cocoa, and rummaged through her cupboards for the marshmallows she knew she had. If there was one thing she hated more than having her entire life turned upside down by a jerk off, fanatical, violent, misogynistic fucker, it was not finding marshmallows when she bloody needed them for her goddamn hot chocolate.

"Are you alright?"

She jumped at the sound of the voice behind her, hitting her head on the top of the cupboard she was digging through.

"Ouch! Damnit." She rubbed her head and turned in her crouched position to look up at Harm. "You scared the shit out of me, Harm."

"Sorry, Mac," he put his hands up defensively, his patented look of concern firmly in place.

"I'm fine," she sighed, suddenly tired.

He didn't look convinced so she opted to change the subject, and returned to digging through the cupboard.

"Would you like a cup of cocoa, Harm?"

"Sure. Can I help?"

"No need." She triumphantly pulled out the bag of marshmallows. She knew she'd bought some the last time she'd gone grocery shopping. Hoorah for the small victories.

"You want marshmallows in yours?" She waved the bag slightly as she stood up, still rubbing her head.

"Here, let me take a look," he stepped closer to her and reached out to check the spot she was rubbing. She pivoted away from him, unnerved by how much room his presence seemed to take up in her kitchen and how little seemed to be left for her.

"Just a knock. I'm fine," she repeated, dismissing his concern. "Marshmallows or not, flyboy?"

"Marshmallows, definitely." He sounded amused and she threw him a curious glance. She realized that she had used the old nickname on him. Well, at least it had somewhat diffused the tension.

"So, Swiss Miss," he teased, "What time is it?"

She pulled a second mug out of the cupboard, and laughed lightly at his double meaning. He was seated at the kitchen table, looking comfortable. There was a playful gleam in his eye.

"0234. Sorry I woke you," she felt genuinely repentant. If she'd remembered that she had a houseguest, she would've stayed in her room. Or at least tried not to bang around the cupboards, searching for her first small victory of the day.

"Not a problem," he shrugged away her apology. "You couldn't sleep?"

"Nope." She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter, waiting for the water to boil.

"If you want to talk, the offer still stands." He sounded cautious.

"I know," she acknowledged his words but left it at that, hoping he would drop it. She wasn't going to talk about it, not with him, and she wouldn't give him any false hopes. She knew how unpleasant those were from being on the receiving end for far too many years.

The kettle whistled and she turned her attention to making the hot chocolate, thankful for the reprieve. Once done, she handed him his cocoa and sat down on the chair opposite him, warming her hands on the mug.

They sat in silence and sipped their drinks. She felt a whole lot calmer and wondered if she should credit the cocoa or his presence for that. Must be the cocoa, she decided, knowing it wasn't. Not wholly, anyways. The thought surprised her. She buried it, not wanting to consider the implications.

"Thanks for letting me crash here." His words were tentative and she guessed he was trying to fill the silence.

She simply nodded. The hum of the fridge and the sound of an occasional car already filled the silence enough for her.

He sighed and she glanced at him, chastising herself. She had invited him to stay; at the very least, she could make an effort to be hospitable.

"Is the couch comfortable enough? You can have the bed if you would prefer?" She offered; she wouldn't mind in the least if it meant getting out of that room and sleeping on sheets that smelled of him. His scent was comforting, it could be nothing else. After all, they had been good friends for so many years. It was only natural, she told herself.

"It's comfortable," he jumped in quickly. "I won't kick you out of your own bed."

"It's a sincere offer, Navy. Not for form's sake," she teased, amused by his eagerness.

Instead of a rejoinder, she was surprised to see a look of regret on his face. "What is it, Harm?"

"I didn't mean to imply, earlier at JAG, that you…that is…" He struggled with his words.

Her hands tightened on her mug. They'd been doing so well, her hands hadn't been sweating, her stomach was settled, and then he had to bring that up...

"Don't worry about it," she shook her head briskly, "we haven't been on the best of terms lately. I understand."

"That doesn't excuse it." He leaned forward in his seat, and zeroed in his attention on her. The room shrank, the walls closed in on her, she struggled to sit still. "Mac, you and I—"

"It's okay, Harm. I get it." She cut him off and hoped that he would drop the subject. Her knuckles turned white as she desperately clutched her mug. The beginnings of a headache took root just above her right temple. She did not want to have this conversation.

He sighed heavily and she knew that he was letting it slide. Relief overwhelmed her; she loosened her grip on the mug, relaxed, and stared at the table's surface until her heart stopped hammering in her ears. When she looked up, he was leaning back in his chair, eyeing her. But at least the room didn't seem quite as small anymore.

She stood up and took their mugs to the sink.

"I'll head back to bed." He said, but didn't move.

"Yeah. Sorry I woke you." She washed their mugs assiduously, waiting for him to leave the room. He didn't. "Would you like the bed, Harm? I really don't mind."

"Are you going to go back to sleep?" He ignored her question.

She sighed as she placed the mugs on the drying rack. With deliberate care, she dried her hands on the dishtowel before looking at him.

"Mac?"

"Yeah. Back to bed." She did her level best not to show her annoyance. He was just being himself.

He gave her hard stare before leaving the kitchen, looking less than pleased.

She padded her way back to her room, still unable to shake her restlessness.

"Goodnight, Harm." She looked at the rumpled shape sprawled on the sofa bed.

"Night, Mac," came his muffled reply.

She closed the door behind her and settled into bed for another few hours of staring at the ceiling.

One hour and 16 minutes later, she gave up on pretending she would sleep and quietly hopped out of bed. She turned on her bedside lamp, spread her laptop and case files over the bed, and set to work.

Two hours and two minutes later Mac rolled her shoulders to ease the kinks. Hunching over files was never good for posture. She was definitely way past being tired. In fact, she was positively wired. Mac jumped of the bed and dug out her running clothes. She bet herself she could get in five miles and make it back in time to shower before Harm woke up.


	2. Sharing

Disclaimer: Not mine.

**Squatter – Part 2**

**Sharing**

JAG HQ  
Friday  
1700 Local

Mac boarded the elevator and hit the button for the lobby. Harm had been busy poring over a file at his desk when she'd tried to make her escape from the office. He'd still somehow managed to look up right as she was locking up her office, and raise a questioning eyebrow at her. Caught in the act. So she'd made a detour by his office, knowing full well that he was still upset from last night. At least she'd figured out a way to make it up to him.

Hopefully, it'd be enough to get things back to the status quo between them. She didn't think she'd make it through to Monday if he kept giving her the cold shoulder as he'd done that morning when she'd returned from her jog. She supposed she couldn't really blame him. But she wished he'd just stop asking her about what was troubling her. She would not talk to him about it. She couldn't.

So she'd stuck her head into his office and let him know she was heading home. He said he'd be at least another hour.

It was perfect for her purposes. Just enough time to stop by the grocery store and buy the necessary ingredients to cook dinner. She'd decided after a silent breakfast of sitting across from him at her kitchen table that she would cook dinner to make amends. Part of her wanted some peace and part of her just wanted to be his friend again. Maybe that was the key to dispelling the guilt that would take up residence under her skin whenever they were in the same room. After all, she'd never felt uncomfortable around him when they were on good terms as friends.

Her grandmother always used to say that food was the language of the soul, that every time you made a meal, you shared a part of yourself. She'd never again be able to share some parts of herself with him, but she could share her friendship. The two were not mutually exclusive, and the sooner he settled for the latter, the sooner they could move beyond this impasse.

--

Mac's Apartment  
Friday  
1850 Local

Mac heard the front door open. Her heart began pounding in her chest. She swallowed and took a calming breath. Good god, she was nervous. She stared at the timer over the stove. Almost done. She wiped her hands over her apron in a nervous gesture. She hadn't made this dish in ages. And she'd never fed Harm a homemade meal. Mac took another deep breath; she was hell bent on not ruining this evening. Tonight was about making amends for last night, and she would not mess this up.

"Wow, Mac. It smells incredible in here." Harm stepped into the kitchen and leaned against the door jamb, watching her. Much as she had watched him last night, she realized.

"Thanks," she leaned against the counter and tried to sound casual, knowing it was a wasted effort. She was feeling much too nervous.

"Did you cook dinner?" His tone was incredulous and, she thought, wary. That was insulting. She'd slaved over an oven for an hour and he was _wary_? The gall.

"Yes, Harm. I cooked dinner," she arched an eyebrow and crossed her arms, daring him to pass a stupid comment.

He stared at her for a moment before walking over to the trashcan, lifting the lid and peering inside. He shrugged and then began opening each of her cupboards, glancing inside.

"What on earth are you doing?" She watched him as he searched her kitchen.

"Looking for the take-out containers," he said casually as he opened the cupboard beside her.

"That's priceless, Hardy." She slapped his shoulder. She realized that they'd slipped into their age-old light-hearted banter. The familiarity was appealing.

"I've always thought I was more of a Laurel," his grin was unrepentant. "Seriously, Mac," he continued, "I've never tasted your home-cooked food before."

"Who said you could have any?" She groused. He laughed in response and she studied him carefully. She could not remember the last time he had laughed when she was the only other person in the room. She turned her attention back to the pan on the stove and inhaled deeply, hoping the aroma would drown out the sudden onslaught of guilt.

"What are you making?"

"Faisinjan. Persian dish. Chicken in walnuts and pomegranate. It's my grandmother's recipe. And don't worry." She waved her wooden spoon at him. "I used organic, grain-fed chicken. You've hammered in your aversion to factory farmed meat."

"How did you –" he suddenly stopped and Mac glanced at him, confused momentarily by his hesitation.

"The butcher gave me his verbal assurance," she teased.

"No, not that. The recipe." He still sounded hesitant.

"What?" He was watching her so intently, that she tripped over her thoughts. It took a moment for his meaning to sink in.

"Oh. You mean how did I get the recipe?" She turned her attention back to the chicken. "Well, my mom didn't take her cooking notebooks when she left. She had all of my grandmother's recipes written down by hand. My dad didn't like most of the Persian stuff. I guess it can be an acquired taste, what with the saffron and fruits and nuts. Anyways, I took them with me when I went to the house for the last time, just before boot camp, while he was at work." She paused, watching the steam rise from the pan. "I loved my grandmother. The smell of saffron on rice always reminds me of her."

"You never talk much about her," his tone was warm.

Mac shrugged slightly. She shook herself from her thoughts and looked at him. His eyes matched the tone of his voice: tender and admiring and filled with--

"You should go change," she said quickly. "Dinner in ten."

He watched her for a moment longer before pushing himself off the door jamb and heading to the bedroom.

Twelve minutes and thirteen seconds – squids had no appreciation for promptness – Mac placed the dish in the centre of the table with a flourish. She'd made a conscious decision not to let what had happened in the kitchen affect her – maybe that would give Harm a hint. It helped that cooking had been surprisingly therapeutic. In fact, she felt just a little giddy that she'd cooked this meal, and just a little comforted at seeing her grandmother's familiar scrawl in the old notebooks. She almost felt ... normal.

"Admire the presentation, please," she instructed and waited patiently for him to comply. She was going to put them both at ease, and make up for last night's awkward dinner.

"Wow, Mac," he began, in a surprisingly sincere tone, "That looks almost as good as it smells."

"Almost?" She cocked her head to the side and lifted one eyebrow.

He cleared his throat, grinned, and tried again. "Wow, Mac. That looks fantastic. And," he inhaled deeply through his nose, "It smells delicious."

"Why thank you, Harm. How kind of you to say." She spooned the rice and chicken onto his plate, rather unsteadily. Was her hand shaking? What the hell. Surely, she wasn't that nervous. Just because this was the first time Harm would be tasting food made by her hand ... Oh hell, who was she kidding. She was very nervous. She hadn't felt this nervous in a long time. She was a Marine, for god's sake, had been in combat situations. She hoped she wasn't too nervous to eat. This was, after all, one of her favourite dishes, and for the first time in a long time she was actually hungry.

"You're making me nervous, Mac." He looked up at her. She realized that she was standing right by his shoulder.

"_I'm_ making _you_ nervous? You've got to be kidding me." She mumbled. She marched around the table and sat down.

"I can't eat with you staring at me like that," his grin was almost diabolical. The jerk was teasing her, she realized. Something close to happiness nestled in her heart. Immediately, alarm bells sounded in her head. She wanted to ignore the alarm bells, just this once. She knew what she was doing. She was being his friend. That was all.

"Just take a damn bite, Harm, and tell me what you think." For good measure, she continued staring at him.

"Come on, now, Mac. Is that any way to treat your houseguest?" If this was a nineteenth century melodrama, he would've been twirling his too-thin moustache.

"Harm!" He could be so exasperating.

"Alright, alright. What is it called, again? Far-, Farin-"

"Faisinjan." She laughed at his difficulty.

"Faisinjan. Hey, now, it's not that funny," he warned, laughing himself.

"Could you taste it, already? The suspense is killing me," she wheedled.

"Mac." The warmth in his tone brought her eyes to his. "I'm sure it tastes great."

"Harm." She mimicked his tone with a teasing sarcasm. "Just take a bite."

He cut a piece of chicken with his knife, and picked up a healthy forkful. He winked at her before putting the forkful in his mouth.

She was on pins and needles, carefully watching his face for any kind of reaction.

He closed his eyes and moaned blissfully. Mac clapped her hands together, grinning like the proverbial cat.

"You like it?"

"Oumf ffmf phmf." He opened his eyes and nodded enthusiastically.

She laughed delightedly. That was exactly how she remembered it tasting. Thank god it turned out well. Her Mamani could rest in peace. Mac happily served herself a plateful of her grandmother's specialty.

"This is incredible! I can't believe you made this." He was actually gushing. He never gushed.

"Gee, thanks, Harm. Is that any way to treat your host?" She took her first bite and had pretty much the same reaction as Harm had. Damn. This was good. She should cook more often.

"You should cook more often," he volunteered between bites.

She nodded, but continued eating in favour of responding.

"How often do you cook?" He picked up another large forkful and ate it.

She shrugged as she speared a piece of chicken with her fork.

"I thought you never cooked," he persisted.

She finished chewing and surrendered to the inevitable conversation.

"Sometimes. When the mood strikes." When she wanted to be reminded of her grandmother. Sometimes when she thought of Uncle Matt. He was a meat and potatoes kind of guy; but she loved meat and potatoes so it worked out well. She had also cooked up a veritable feast right after things ended with Clay, just to keep from thinking about how things had ended with Clay. It took her a week and a half to finish the food. Honestly, however, that spurt had been a one-time thing and she hadn't cooked again until tonight. It was just easier to heat up a can of whatever.

"I haven't made this particular dish in ages," she added, hopefully before he realized that she'd been lost in thought.

"When was the last time?" He was busy cutting away at the chicken on his plate, his tone conversational.

"I may have cooked it for Chloe once. But I think the last time was on my birthday, last year. It's one of my favourite dishes. I save it, really, odd as that sounds." She looked up to see that he had stopped eating. She frowned, was something wrong with the food? "Is-"

"I missed your birthday," he was looking right at her, remorse darkening his expression, making him look older.

Not now. He couldn't bring this up now. They'd been doing so well.

"Don't worry about it. Hey, your glass is empty. Water?" She grabbed his glass and headed for the sink without waiting for his reply.

She leaned against the counter as she filled their glasses with water. Things would be so much easier if he stopped with the probing questions and the meaningful remarks. She needed to find a way to stop him from doing that. Deflections would only work for so long. Pulling him into the old rhythm of their banter might work – it had almost been working so far. She'd keep at it. Keep it light.

Mac turned off the faucet and turned towards the table, glasses in hand. Harm was watching her intently. She faltered in her step, the room seemed to close in on her. Regroup, Marine. She took a deep breath and walked back to the table. She placed his glass beside his plate and offered him a smile.

"You'd better eat up, Squid," she teased, "I can guarantee there won't be leftovers and who knows when I'll cook again." She dug into the food on her own plate, ignoring his penetrating stare.

They ate in silence for a few minutes.

"Hey, Mac." He sounded casual, almost too casual.

"Yeah?" Mac looked up at him, unable to breathe, fork poised in midair. Please don't ask a probing question, she begged silently. Please don't.

"You up for a movie after dinner?"

"Sure." She exhaled heavily. This, she could deal with. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well," he began in that same casual tone. "We could go to the video store. Spend ten minutes picking movies, and twenty arguing over our choices before agreeing on one neither of us wants to watch."

She stared at him, unsure as to whether he was kidding or throwing a snide remark swathed in sarcasm. He seemed to be kidding. She could work with that.

"Come on. I'll throw in a packet of peanut M&Ms." He offered her a charming smile that set them firmly back on familiar ground. Mac relaxed. She could definitely deal with this.

She arched an eyebrow in challenge, knowing she could get a better offer out of him.

"And a packet of Sour Patches." He crossed his arms and assumed his negotiator's stance.

She held her ground, silent.

"Alright. Fine," he conceded, "I'll make the popcorn, too."

"Microwave or stove top?"

"What do you take me for?" He raised a hand to his heart, his face contorted in mock horror. "Stove top, of course. That microwave stuff will kill you."

"Now, how could I refuse an offer like that?" Victory. Silence was definitely a weapon when it came to negotiating with Harm.

"You're not going to make me watch some sappy chick-flick, are you?" He asked, once again enthusiastically attacking the chicken on his plate. Making dinner would definitely qualify as her first big victory of the day. She hadn't felt this pleased about something in far too long.

"Nah," she said nonchalantly, trying to hide her giddiness. "I'm not in the mood for _Top Gun_ tonight."

"Funny, Marine."

--

Mac's Apartment  
Friday  
2313 Local

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. His attention was on the movie. She watched the light from the screen flash across his face as he rested casually on her couch. He seemed comfortable. The thought, foolishly, made her happy. She clamped down on the feeling immediately.

She sighed quietly and turned her gaze back to the man and woman on the screen, and watched as they tried to diffuse a bomb. She would bet her membership at the Smithsonian that not only would they succeed, but celebrate their success with a spontaneous congratulatory kiss. She would also bet that they would kiss as the credits rolled. Hollywood really did do its best to lull viewers into the false security of celluloid-thin happy endings. One kiss after an adrenaline high did not a successful long-term relationship make. She knew this from experience. Twice over. Secretly, though, she envied the characters for wrapping up in two hours what she couldn't in 36 years. She wished she could script her own life. The credits would have rolled right after she pulled Harm onto that Helo over the deserts of Arizona.


	3. Gold

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Thanks to doc and JAGJunkie for spotting the typo in this part.

--

**Squatter - Part 3**

**Gold**

Mac's Apartment  
Saturday  
0730 Local

Mac stepped out of the shower, and wrapped a towel around her. There was nothing quite like a hot shower after a long jog on a cold morning. She stared at her reflection in the slightly steamed mirror. The dark circles under her eyes gave her a hollowed look. Her cheekbones were more prominent, or rather her cheeks had sunk in, since she hadn't been eating much, or regularly, of late. At least her complexion wasn't suffering. The extra morning runs had her sporting a light tan on her face. Mac studiously avoided looking at her eyes. She knew what she'd find there: nothing. They'd be empty and sad, and she couldn't bear to see that. She turned away.

Mac walked into her bedroom and removed her towel. She dug around her drawers for underwear and a t-shirt, which she then slipped into. She threw a pair of jeans and a sweater onto her bed. She needed to do her laundry. And clean her apartment. At least the grocery shopping was mostly done. Had she thanked Harm? She couldn't remember. She'd thank him once she was done getting ready.

Mac sat on the edge of her bed, and squeezed some moisturizer on her hands. She looked at her room with an appraising eye as she massaged the lotion onto her legs. Today was as good a day as any to redecorate her room. It would also be a good way to channel her restlessness. It was something to do on a Saturday, something that'd most likely have her exhausted enough by the end of the day to sleep a couple of hours uninterrupted. Maybe even more if redecorating would dispel the disquiet that Sadiq had left in his wake.

Today, she would redecorate. What colour scheme should she go with? Something lighter. Although, she did have to admit that she quite liked the current look of her room, it was a nice colour scheme. Damn Sadiq. Maybe something dramatic. Burgundy. No, too dark. Orange? Maybe gold and orange. Bronze. Copper. Some kind of brown. That could give a nice, cozy feel to the room. Hell, she might be better off waiting until she got to the paint store. Or maybe she should go to the bookstore and browse through those home decoration magazines. She was so much better at stripping guns than stripping paint –

The click of her doorknob turning pulled Mac from her thoughts. She looked up to see Harm standing in her doorway, frozen in place, and staring at her.

There was something in his eyes. It was a look she had never quite seen him direct at her – dark and intense, heavy with – oh god. She tried to ignore the dull tug low in her belly. Why was he looking at her like _that_. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she struggled to find a breath.

He wasn't looking at her face, but at her clothes. Mac followed his gaze and stopped short. She'd forgotten that she was only wearing a t-shirt and her underwear. She had one foot drawn up on the bed, the other rested on the floor while she moisturized her thigh, giving him a pretty decent – or rather indecent – view. She looked at her state of undress and remembered the look in his eyes. She felt the heat rise to her face.

Mac hastily planted both feet on the floor and reached for her jeans, which were lying beside her. She was unsettled by the part of her that wanted to continue slowly massaging the lotion onto her thigh so that she could keep seeing that look in his eyes. What threw her off the most, though, was the part of her that wanted to feel his hands on her leg.

"I thought you were still out on your run." His voice was low and deep. It sounded how she thought his hands might feel trailing up her thigh. She shook her head briskly to chase away that image. Dammit, now she was imagining things.

"It's okay," she pulled her jeans on with more force than was necessary. Stupid libido. That was all it was. That was it. Her hands were shaking. She struggled to button her jeans – stupid button flies, what had she been thinking buying button fly jeans. She could feel his eyes on her fingers as she fumbled for some decorum. Mac gave up. "You've seen me in less."

She grabbed her sweater, figuring that haste trumped propriety in this situation. Besides, he'd already seen her underwear. She'd have to remember to lock her door in future. Mac slipped by Harm, making sure not to touch him. He moved aside as he watched her pass.

"The bathroom's all yours." She pulled the door shut behind her, but not before catching sight of his face and of his eyes as they darted to the undone fly of her jeans, then quickly away. Once the door was shut, Mac leaned back heavily against it and shut her eyes. She took deep, steadying breaths to quell the sudden desire that bubbled deep in her belly and spurted through her veins, leaving her shaken.

What the hell.

--

Mac's Apartment  
Saturday  
0802 Local

Mac sat on the couch, using her laptop to scour the internet for decorating tips. She was fully clothed, and all her buttons were done up. She was sure because she'd checked. Three times. She'd also felt silly each time she re-checked, but what had happened in the bedroom had thrown her for a loop. That fleeting look she'd seen in his eyes off and on since his return to JAG had been directed fully at her (and her underwear), at 100 times the usual intensity.

She didn't know what to do. She wished he wouldn't look at her like that. It multiplied her guilt a hundred-fold. And it aroused her. She didn't know what to do about it.

It was tempting, though, to give in. Tempting and incredibly unfair to him. And to her. Unfair to them both. There'd always been a physical attraction between them. She couldn't deny that. Hell, they'd been good – she'd even say that he'd been phenomenal – at fighting it all these years. It was the rest, the deeper stuff that happiness was made of that eluded her. He seemed to have a better idea these days as to what that deeper stuff was, and she knew she'd fall short.

But enough of that. She was redecorating.

"Hey, Mac." Harm exited the bedroom and offered her a casual greeting. She waited for awkward moment #587 to morph into a giant beast of awkwardness and lay siege on the entire weekend.

"What're your plans for the day?" He sat down beside her, looked right at her, and grinned effortlessly. His easy attitude was a pleasant surprise. She smiled back. Impressive, she thought: he'd slain the beast.

"Redecorating."

"Really? What? The kitchen? You should probably upgrade your appliances. Especially if you keep on cooking the way you do. And those cabinet doors need to go. Some new tiles couldn't hurt either. Have you ever grouted?" He was rambling and she realized he was still nervous. So maybe he'd just rendered the beast unconscious. Still impressive, she decided, given their usual tendency to invite the beast for afternoon tea.

"My bedroom, actually." She grinned as she noted his embarrassment at her reply. "But after that kind of praise, I may have to add the kitchen to the list."

They shared a laugh; the beast was slain.

"So, the bedroom. What'd you have in mind?" He studied the picture on the website she was browsing.

"I thought I'd paint the walls. Get a new bedspread. Accessories – or accents, I haven't figured out what the difference is yet – seem like a good idea."

"Sounds like a plan. Hey, click on that link right there, it looks like it could work in your room." He pointed to an image on her screen.

"That one?" She placed the curser over the image.

"Yeah. You know, if you wanted to put up shelves like that, I could easily do it. I have the tools and," he wiggled his fingers in front of her, "The touch." He turned his attention back to the screen. "You might like cubbies, you could put in candles or some knick knacks. And I know of this great store for beddings. Mom went on and on about it on her last visit..."

He looked at her with an expression of worry, once he realized that she was staring at him. "What?"

She didn't know where to start. Was he assuming she'd ask for his help? At first, she was offended that he would just assume it. She hadn't planned on asking him for anything.

"Mac, I have the tools and the experience," he pointed out patiently.

That was true, she conceded. And he would be a huge help, since she had done very little of this, and none since her last revamp of her apartment. That time, she'd gotten a great deal because she'd served in Bosnia with her contractor's brother.

"Seriously? You seriously want to spend your Saturday picking out bedspreads and paint colours with me, and then painting my bedroom?"

"Sure. Why not? I did it all the time when I was fixing up my place. Remember?"

She nodded, but she wasn't convinced.

"Don't put your plans aside for this," she warned.

"I'm not. I hadn't made any plans for the weekend. Besides, I'll be an asset. I can help you pick the best paint brand. I'm a vault of knowledge, you know." His tone was all self-righteous arrogance. She couldn't help but laugh.

"Paint brands? Well," she batted her eyelashes and twirled the ends of her hair, "Golly gee. I was just going to pick the prettiest colour."

"That'd be your first mistake." His tone was mockingly patronizing.

She rolled her eyes, inwardly surprised at how effortlessly he'd managed to put her at ease. Avoiding him around the office suddenly seemed silly. She was reading too much into everything.

"Come on then, Bob Vila. Let's go." She pushed herself off the couch and went to her room to grab her wallet and keys.

"Great." He jumped off the couch and headed to the front door. "There's a hardware store about 20 minutes from here that has a great selection on paints. Top of the line stuff. Great pricing. We'll take my SUV. I don't think your corvette has enough trunk space." He chattered away as he slipped on his coat, oblivious to her amusement. She knew he'd had a great time of working on his place, but she had no idea how deeply he enjoyed this renovating stuff.

"Hey," he continued, ushering her out her front door. "What colour were you thinking of going with? You have this tan-taupe thing going now. I was thinking something a bit more yellow. Yellow is a good colour for you."

She glanced at him over her shoulder as she locked her door, surprised by his comment. He was buttoning his coat so she couldn't see his face.

"How do you figure?"

He looked up at her, a crease in his brow indicating that he was confused by her question.

"You look yellow to me." He shrugged, as though that were the obvious answer.

"I _look_ yellow?" She raised her eyebrow in scepticism. She _looked yellow_?

"Well," he cocked his head to the side and studied her for a moment. "More like gold. You should go for a shade of gold." He grinned and pulled her towards the elevator. She hadn't realized that she'd just been standing by her door, staring at him.

"Gold?" She repeated, too intrigued by this conversation to protest at his dragging her along the hallway.

"Is there an echo in here?" He gave her a teasing glance and pressed the button to call the elevator.

"Cut it out." She didn't want to be distracted from her line of inquiry. "What do you mean I look gold?"

"I don't know how to explain it." He shrugged again. "I look at you and I think gold."

"Okaaay." She mulled it over.

They waited in silence for the elevator. After a moment, Harm continued.

"Hey, Mac." He was looking at her from the corner of his eye.

"Yeah?" She turned to face him.

The elevator arrived and they both entered.

"What colour do I look like to you?"

She pretended to study him for a long moment. Finally, she pressed the button for the lobby and answered. "Salmon pink. A definite salmon pink."

"Thanks." He rolled his eyes and grinned.

She studied him again, seriously this time.

"Blue." She didn't realize she'd said it out loud until he turned to look at her.

"Like navy?" He asked. She could see the disappointment in his eyes.

"No, no. Not navy. More like ... that light blue, the kind that's almost more white than blue. Ice blue, I guess."

"Really? Ice blue, huh?" He brightened at her answer, although she couldn't fathom why. This whole conversation felt silly. She felt silly even having it.

"Why?" He asked, looking at her. He was frowning slightly as he did when he was trying to piece together some puzzle.

"I don't know," she said, feeling self-conscious. "You asked me. You just ... do."

He seemed satisfied with the answer, much to her relief.

"You know why I think of gold when I see you, Sarah?"

She wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer, not when his tone was so affectionate. So she opted to make a joke, lighten the moment.

"I'm malleable and my price depends on market value."

He laughed outright at that. She grinned; he really did look good when he laughed. She loved seeing laugh lines crinkle the corner of his eyes and his smile brighten the room. Or, in this case, the elevator.

"Hell no." The laugh lines disappeared too quickly for her liking. He was gunning for a meaningful conversation. She did not want a meaningful conversation. Suddenly, she was angry. Why the hell did he get to choose when they had a serious conversation.

"My existence depends on the exploitation of cheap labour and slavery, destroying countless lives." She'd meant it as a joke, but the resentment underscoring her words ruined the intended effect.

"No." his tone was sober now and she cursed herself. So much for lightening the moment. She knew she should stop, now was the time to shut up, but for some inexplicable reason she just couldn't.

"I get looted and plundered and sold to the highest bidder." She heard her voice, but the bitterness in her tone was foreign to her ears. Where the hell was this coming from? Why now? She didn't look at him: as it was, she could picture his look of disapproval.

"No." he responded quietly.

Mac's hands were shaking with suppressed fury. She clenched her jaw and scowled. What was she doing? Her mouth was getting away from her. She fixed her stare on the closed doors. Would they ever reach the lobby. She could not control the anger that was frothing and foaming through her, overpowering her judgment. She needed to get out of this elevator. She focused on her breathing, and ground her teeth. Where. The. Hell. Was. This. Coming. From.

The elevator dinged to announce their arrival, and the doors opened. She needed to get out. She hurried out of the too-stuffy elevator. She needed room to breathe. She needed to stop talking. She needed to stop talking because every time she opened her mouth, she said stupid things. She would not speak. As soon as she made the resolution, it was broken by her irrational, uncontrollable, consuming anger.

"My appeal has led people to leave all they love behind to go on a fool's quest to own me, with no guarantees of success." She spat out the words, but as soon as they fell on her ears, full of bile and vitriol, her anger deflated. Shock was the only thing keeping her standing. Did she actually say that? To _him_? Did she really believe that. Had she really said that out loud? What was wrong with her, that her tongue was suddenly running amuck. And the things she was saying ... saying when _he_ was standing right next to her...

She realized Harm hadn't exited the elevator. She stopped and turned around, not completely convinced she even wanted to see what he was thinking. He was looking at her, his gaze steady and sharp. She knew this look, too. It was his game face, the one he wore when he had an accused on the witness stand, dead to rights. She was overrun by the urge to crawl back into her bed and stare at her ceiling. Their gazes locked and she crossed her arms in front of her, waiting for whatever was coming.

"Is that what you think, Sarah?"

She had no answer to that question. She did not know what she thought. Where had that come from, that uncontrollable fury that was gone as soon as it came. It was the damn lack of sleep. It had to be. That, and she really didn't want to know why he thought gold when he saw her. She didn't want to know that he even thought of gold when he saw her.

"Is that what you think?" It almost sounded like a challenge to her.

"I don't know, Harm." She smothered her impatience. She needed to get out of this hallway. "I don't know anymore." She headed for the exit. "I'll be in the car. If you still want to come." She felt for the keys to her corvette in her coat pocket, in case he decided that spending the day with her was about as appealing as a lobotomy.

Mac strode out of the building and welcomed the cold air that slammed into her. She headed for his SUV and waited. Five minutes. She'd wait five minutes. Then she'd leave. No. Then she'd apologize. She couldn't just say things like that to him and leave it at that, for god's sake. As long as he was angry with her, he had a hold over her. He was not allowed to have a hold over her, so she would apologize. To hell with seeming weak. Maybe it was just what she was. She couldn't even control herself, after all.

She was surprised to hear his car doors unlock by remote, and looked over to see him approaching his SUV in long, impatient strides. She turned around and opened the car door to enter, unsure what to make of his presence, and too upset to give it proper thought.

They climbed into the car and she waited for him to start the engine. His movements were brisk and jerky. He roughly steered out of his parking space and accelerated down the street. She could feel the tension pulse through the confined car interior.

They drove in silence. She didn't dare turn on the radio.

Dammit. She'd decided on Friday that they'd never make it through the weekend if she kept saying stupid things to him and he kept giving her the cold treatment. It was Saturday, and she was back to saying stupid things. It had to stop. She had to get a better reign on herself. She would only talk to him about innocent things, like the weather. As a fleeting thought, she wondered why the hell he'd bothered sticking around this time. Last time, he'd taken one word spoken in anger and run away with it. Why the hell was he still here this time.

"Harm." She turned to look at him.

He remained stony-faced, and stared at the road. It weakened her resolve to apologize. She definitely couldn't do it while looking at him, not while he was wearing that expression. She turned away and stared out the window.

"I shouldn't have said ... what I said back there." It was a dismal apology and she knew he'd call her on it.

"Because you don't believe it or because you don't think I should have heard it?" His voice was cutting, his question even more so.

She watched the sidewalk blur as they sped along. "Because it hurt you." I hurt you.

"I'm a big boy," was his terse reply.

She waited, but he didn't venture any more. She didn't know what else to say, so she said nothing, hoping some words would find their own way.

They arrived at the bedding store after 23 minutes of silence. This would not do, she thought. This would not do.

"Harm." She began in a conciliatory tone. She turned to face him. "I understand if you don't want to do this. I can take a cab home."

The glare he directed at her surprised her.

"We are buying you bedding." He said slowly. His glare softened slightly into a stern warning. "Then we are buying you paint. Then we are going to your apartment and we are going to paint your bedroom." She'd only ever heard him speak like that to obstinate witnesses.

His tone affronted her, but she swallowed her ire. She couldn't understand why he was so intent on doing this with her, but if he wanted to, fine. Whatever. It wasn't like she could stop him when he was set on something, and she was not in the mood to bang her head against a wall.

"Fine," she huffed as she unlocked the door. "Are you still set on gold?" She couldn't help herself; he really infuriated her sometimes. At least the comment didn't come out sounding too snide.

"More than ever, Marine," he replied. Then he surprised the hell out of her by breaking out into his full-wattage, no holds barred grin.

What was that about? She stared at him for a full five second before she remembered herself and exited the car. What was he up to. Did she even want to know.

--

Byzantine Bedding  
Saturday  
0953 Local

"Hey, Mac." Harm waved at Mac from down the aisle. "This is an even better shade for that set you have your eye on. Take a look."

Mac bit back a sigh. This had to be the oddest situation she'd ever found herself in. Following his sudden change of mood in the car, he'd been ridiculously helpful and patient. In fact, he seemed to be in his element. She, on the other hand, was ready to pull her hair out.

She walked over to Harm, who was staring at the racks of sheets in front of him.

"I think you should go with this one, Mac. It fits your colour pattern. The sheets are 100 combed cotton. Long staple, too. You know," he gave her a knowing glance, "You shouldn't let high thread counts fool you. This here is a single-ply with a high count, so you know you're getting the good stuff. Did I mention that the sheets will last longer if you rotate them regularly? I rotate mine with every wash. It's a good system." He was holding two sets of sheets to the lights, studiously comparing ... something. She had no clue what he was looking for.

She wondered how the hell he knew so much about sheets. She'd seen a really great bedding set when they'd first walked in. But then Sheet Guru Rabb had balked at the thread count. Or weave. Or something. She couldn't remember. So, 40 minutes later, here she stood listening to Harm go on about thread counts. Boredom had fizzled out her anger. Her only entertainment was watching the Guru question the salespeople about import duties and tariffs on cotton.

"Feel this, Mac. What do you think?" He held out the corner of a cream sheet. She obediently put out a hand and rubbed the sheet between her fingers.

"Nice."

He raised an eyebrow. "Just nice?"

"Soft?" She offered, hoping to have landed on the right adjective. She'd learned with that first bedding set she'd liked that 'functional' was not a proper descriptor for bed sheets. That'd been what had launched the Guru into his sermon on weaves and thread counts and stapled cotton and so on and so forth, etc., etc.

"Hmm." He frowned, deep in thought. "Well, how does it feel compared to the yellow-cream one? The one I showed you about two sheets ago."

"Softer. I prefer this one." She couldn't remember which 'yellow-cream' sheet he was talking about.

He nodded thoughtfully. "I agree. What about this one? It's more of a peach-cream, but I think it could still work with the comforter. What do you think?"

"Peach may be pushing it a bit." She couldn't see any kind of difference between the two sheets. What the hell was 'peach-cream' anyways?

"I think you're right. Let's go with this. We can use the colour scheme from your bedding to select paint."

"Sounds great." Thank god. She couldn't wait to leave this store. She'd never spent this much time making any kind of purchase before.

"Do you want to go with an analogous colour scheme or a complimentary one?" He picked up two sets of sheets, pillow cases, and fitted sheets.

"Umm, what?" She had no clue what he was going on about.

"I think analogous would look good. We'll do one wall in a darker shade..." he must've noticed her blank expression, because he trailed off and grinned. "I'll show you what I mean at the paint store," he supplied. There was a twinkle in his eye, which she realized she found very appealing. In fact, his behaviour since they entered the store was overwhelmingly endearing. She watched him as he handed the sheets and bedding set to the cashier. He turned and caught her staring. Something in his eyes changed when they locked with hers. She looked away before she could decipher what that change was.

"Okay." She pulled out her credit card and watched the cashier ring in her purchases. This was shaping up to be a costly weekend.

"Then we can grab lunch. On me." It was a casual offer. She turned to him again, smiling for the first time since they left her apartment. Now he was talking her language.

"I'll buy lunch, Harm. Consider it your commission for helping me out." She dared him to contradict her.

He put up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. I'll bring the car around so we can load this up."

She nodded and he headed out the store.

Mac handed the cashier her credit card once her charges were tallied.

"He's a good-looking guy," the cashier said conversationally.

She looked at the cashier, surprised.

"What?"

"I've never seen a guy so eager to pick out bed sheets." The cashier was busy packing up Mac's purchases.

Mac glanced out the store window, and caught sight of Harm climbing into his SUV. She sighed. "Me neither."

"So when's the big day?" The cashier continued, not looking up from packing.

"What big day?" Mac asked absently, too busy trying to break down the total cost in her head to give the cashier her full attention. How much were those sheets going for?

"The day you two move in together..."

Her head whipped up to the cashier, the mental math forgotten. "WHAT?!"

The cashier, taken aback by Mac's outburst, tried to placate. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to pry. I didn't notice any rings ... I do apologize for presuming. Here's your receipt, Ma'am."

Mac kept staring at the cashier as she took the receipt. For some incomprehensible reason, she felt the need to clarify her relationship with Harm to this stranger.

"Look," she started. "Him and I, we—"

"You ready, Mac?"

She turned around to see Harm enter the store.

"Uh, yeah. Let's, ah, go pick out paint." She studiously avoided looking at the cashier as they left the store, bags in hand.

--

Mac's Apartment  
Saturday  
1708 Local

"How's this?" Mac cocked her head to the side and studied the wall in front of her, paint roller in hand. She looked down at Harm. He was sitting in the middle of the now-empty bedroom, assembling her new light fixture. They'd found a furniture accessories store right near the paint store and she – with a lot of help from Harm – had gone slightly overboard in her purchases. She was now the proud owner of a new light fixture, a new bed frame, new curtains, one bedside lamp and one floor lamp, a full length mirror, enough decorative throw pillows to drown in, and an assortment of picture frames and decorative 'knick knacks' which she thought were excessive, but both Harm and the salesman had insisted were "tasteful". Her credit card was limp with use.

Following lunch, they had cleared her bedroom and Harm had taken her old furniture to a storage locker he was renting. He'd put her in charge of painting her room – only after giving precise instructions and a detailed demonstration.

She looked at the walls of her room once again. She'd just completed applying the first coat of paint on all four walls. It felt incredibly satisfying.

She grinned at Harm. This was a huge victory. Asshole Sadiq. This round was hers.

"You hungry?" She asked Harm. "How about pizza? I could use a break before tackling the second coat of paint." She blew a stray strand of hair away from her eyes, and decided that she liked the way the room was shaping up so far. It was dramatic and yet, calm. The whole scheme reminded her of a vivid sunset. Or sunrise. She hadn't decided yet.

"Sure. I'm almost done with this. I'll install it after we eat, then I can help you finish up painting the walls. After that, we can put together the new bed frame. We could finish tonight."

"I don't doubt it, Navy." She settled down next to him, and watched him work. They made a very efficient team. She sighed. "I can't believe I bought a new bed frame."

"The last one wouldn't have matched, Mac." His head was bent over the fixture he was working on. "Brushed copper is the perfect look," he added.

"It seems excessive. I didn't really need a new bed frame. Or the light fixture..."

"Do you like them, though?" He looked at her when he asked the question.

She shrugged and let her eyes roam the half-finished room. "Yeah." She smiled as her gaze fell on the wall she'd just painted a deep burnt orange. "A lot."

"Then it's not excessive."

She looked at him for one long moment, and thought she saw the stirrings of anticipation in his eyes. He was waiting, she realized. He was still expecting. The queasy sensation returned to her stomach. Her palms began to sweat.

"I'll order that pizza." She tried a grin, but could only manage a tired smile. She stood up and exited her room in search of a phone.

--

Mac's Apartment  
Sunday  
0203 Local

"I can't believe we're done. That was pretty quick work, Squid."

Harm nodded, grinning. He surveyed the room, standing in his characteristic hands-on-hips pose.

"We'll leave the windows open a smidge and the door closed so that the smell doesn't overpower the apartment." He decided.

"Oh." She hadn't realized that she wouldn't be able to sleep in her room tonight. Damn. She really wanted to see if changing up her room would make it easier for her to get some sleep. She really wanted to know if her bank account had been so severely dented for a good cause, or if it was all a waste. She hoped it wasn't a waste.

Wait. If she couldn't sleep in here ... She glanced out her bedroom door, towards the fold-out couch. She did have a sleeping bag in her storage space in the basement of the building. But she was so sore and tired; the floor did not seem appealing.

"It's a good thing your fold-out couch can fit two adults." He looked at the mess of brushes scattered on the floor as he said this, missing the panicked expression on her face. "I'll clean the brushes now, so you can use the washroom first."

It was stupid, she knew, but she didn't want to sleep on the couch with him. It would be uncomfortable. She still remembered the way he'd looked at her in her bedroom just this morning.

He must have sensed her discomfort, because he glanced at her, placed a hand over his heart and intoned, with exaggerated sincerity, "I offer you all the comforts of a lumpy fold-out couch."

She smiled at his attempt at humour. Again, she was reading too much into everything.

"Thanks, Harm."

"My pleasure, Mac. The brushes need to be cleaned anyways." he shrugged, and bent down to retrieve the brushes and rollers.

She shook her head and frowned. "I mean, for all your help with the room. And ... everything." She meant for his patience, but she was afraid he'd read too much into that kind of thanks. So she settled for being vague.

"My pleasure, Mac." He stood and gently rubbed her shoulder as he walked past her, brushes and rollers in hand. "My pleasure," she heard him repeat when he was halfway out the door.

--

Mac's Apartment  
Sunday  
0327 Local

She couldn't sleep. Surprise, surprise. It was 0327. This was getting to be ridiculous. Mac turned her head to watch Harm as he slept. She could barely make out his form in the darkness, but she could hear his steady breathing quite clearly. She could see the rise and fall of his chest as he slept. She wished she was also sleeping. She wished she could sleep. Why couldn't she sleep. She blinked back her sudden tears. She was so fed-up.


	4. Realizations and Confessions

Disclaimer: Not mine.

--

**Squatter – Part 4**

**Realizations and Confessions**

Mac's Apartment  
Sunday  
0701 Local

Mac opened her eyes and stared, unseeing, at the ceiling. She'd just had ... 47 minutes of uninterrupted, although light sleep. But she wished she hadn't fallen asleep. She could feel that familiar sense of dread that'd been plaguing her whenever she woke up, ever since Paraguay – although, sharing a bed with Clay for a few months had given her a mild respite. She listened to the slow thudding of her heart. She thought she could hear every heartbeat, and yet it felt wrong. As though her heart didn't fit, was beating out of synch somehow. She couldn't describe the feeling, didn't know what it meant. Prickles of discomfort settled in her limbs and made her shudder.

Mac shook herself to dispel the feeling.

It was as though she'd woken up from a nightmare, the kind that left one feeling unsettled and uneasy for the rest of the day. But, she couldn't remember having dreamed anything during her 47 minutes of sleep. She wished she could at least remember her dreams. That way she'd know what was causing her to feel so discomfited, so out of sorts. Instead, she had to live in this ... limbo.

Mac shut her eyes, sighed, and turned to her side. When she reopened her eyes, she saw Harm lying next to her, propped his elbow. He was watching her thoughtfully. She forced a smile and hoped it looked sincere.

"Good morning, Harm."

He opened his mouth to speak, hesitated and finally replied, "Morning."

She got the impression that he'd wanted to say something else – he'd probably heard her sigh. She stayed in bed, watching him as he watched her. Her brain told her she should get out of the bed, that he was about to ask a question she wouldn't want to answer. But 47 minutes of sleep slowed down her response time.

They were silent for a few long seconds, and Mac finally shifted to get out of bed. He quickly encircled her wrist with his hand to stop her. She stilled.

"Hey, you had quite a nightmare just now, are you okay?" His voice was gentle and couched in concern.

Her eyes flew to his. How did he...

"You tossed and turned." He shrugged lightly. "It sounded like a bad dream."

She studied his face, wondering if he'd heard more than he was letting on. What had he heard? Did she say something in her sleep? She wished she could remember her dreams.

"Did I?" She tried to sound surprised.

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. He was wearing his standard walking-on-eggshells expression; the kind he used when he was trying to say something without saying anything, or trying to ask something without asking anything. She decided she hated that look, and she hated having to figure out what he wasn't saying or answer what he wasn't asking. She whipped around, pulling her wrist from his grasp. She flung the bed sheet away, and stood up quickly.

She marched towards her room, unable to keep the irritation out of her brisk movements.

"Let me see how the paint's doing." It came out sounding impatient and angry, and she tried to recognize herself in her voice.

Mac thrust her room door open and stepped inside. The smell of paint was mostly gone and, bathed in early morning sunlight, her room looked gorgeous with the rich, warm tones they'd chosen. Her anger evaporated, and all she felt was guilt for snapping at Harm. She shut her eyes in defeat; she hated feeling this way. Going from sadness to anger to guilt, all in one movement. She wished she'd gotten a proper night's sleep. She wished she didn't feel this unsettled. She wished she could control something, anything. Preferably herself.

She felt Harm come into the room.

"I shouldn't have..."

"I didn't mean to..."

They spoke at the same time, and then both stopped. She turned to him, and found him standing in the doorway, his hands on his hips. She sighed.

"I shouldn't have snapped at you."

"And I didn't mean to pry." He offered her a small grin – she knew it wasn't sincere; he was still upset – and looked around the room.

"It looks really good, Mac." He changed the subject.

"It does," she readily agreed.

"It suits you."

Oh, no. They were not going to have that stupid conversation about gold and what suited her.

"It wouldn't look anywhere near this good without your help, Harm."

He grinned – this time it was sincere – and looked at her with a slight glimmer in his eye. "I told you I'd be an asset."

She shook her head indulgently at his self-satisfaction.

He laughed lightly as he leaned against the doorjamb with his arms crossed, and watched her.

Mac looked away and did another survey of her room. It really did look nice. Warm and welcoming. Cozy. Especially in the sunlight ... She was distracted by the feel of his eyes on her. She glanced at him. Why was he still looking at her? And why like that – with such ... affection? Just as she felt discomfort start its slow crawl up her spine, he nodded toward the bathroom.

"You go ahead. I'll make breakfast."

"I should be making you breakfast," she protested, relieved that his intensity was no longer directed at her. "You gave up your Saturday to redecorate my bedroom."

"I didn't give up anything, Mac." He raised his eyebrow, underscoring his sincerity.

She wasn't convinced and was about to argue her point.

"Tell you what, Mac," he began quickly, not giving her a chance to speak. "I'll make breakfast today, and next time you cook one of your grandmother's recipes, you invite me over."

She studied him as she considered his request. There was something in his manner that made her think he had an ulterior motive, but she couldn't quite pin it down. She shrugged the feeling away.

"You can make breakfast." She smiled at him, determined not to let her maelstrom of uncontrollable emotions misinterpret his actions or make him feel uncomfortable. This was her problem. "I like mushrooms in my omelette, Flyboy."

He grinned widely and took a step towards her. His hand reached out, and he bent his head down slightly toward her. He looked like he was about to kiss her. She froze as she stared up at him, wide-eyed. What was he doing? The only coherent thought that flitted through her head was that she hadn't meant to make him feel _that_ comfortable.

He wrapped his hand around her elbow and placed a lingering kiss on her forehead. Her eyes closed of their own volition when his lips touched her skin, just below her hairline. It was a friendly gesture and it made something inside of her click into its rightful place.

She felt him pull back and looked up at him. His eyes held something she couldn't name, but he was smiling warmly. She returned his smile, not knowing what else to do.

Before the moment could become awkward, Harm let go of her elbow and walked backward towards the door.

"Breakfast in fifteen, Marine." He turned around and exited the room, leaving her with a flash of his grin and her muddled thoughts.

--

Mac's Apartment  
Sunday  
2138 Local

Mac sat on the couch, and tried her damndest to keep her anxiety from being noticeable to Harm. Today had been ... trying. They'd finished all the major work on her room yesterday, but had left the smaller tasks of placing the furniture and arranging all the decorative touches – throw pillows, picture frames, and the rest of the 'knick knacks' – for today. Mac had figured Harm would help her move the bigger furniture items and then go about his weekend plans, whatever they may be, while she finished up her room. But, to her eternal surprise, Harm had insisted on helping with the smaller stuff, too. So they'd spent the rest of the morning and the entire afternoon in her bedroom, discussing and debating and arguing on where this picture frame would look best, or where that painting should be hung, or how these pillows should be arranged.

At first, she'd been confused as to why he wanted to help. But then, as the day progressed a few things became clear.

After they'd spent a couple of hours pushing and lifting the heavier items, she remembered how much she just enjoyed spending time with him. They'd bantered and teased and talked of inconsequential things, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so comfortable with another human being.

When they'd begun replacing the smaller items in her room, beginning with the picture frames, and they'd discussed whether the wooden frame would look better on her bedside or on the dresser, she'd realized that she was already seeing him as a solid presence in her life, as a comfort. Again. She was ambivalent on how she felt about this. She reminded herself that she'd wanted to be his friend, hence the invitation to stay at her apartment in the first place. But actually seeing him as a _comfort_, as someone she could rely on ... she wasn't sure she was ready for that.

When they'd taken a short break for lunch, and had made sandwiches and salad side by side in the kitchen, she realized that she was still in love with him – and not the friendship kind of love. There was no ambivalence in her reaction to this revelation. She did not want to be in love with Harmon Rabb Jr. She did not. But she could deal with this. He'd be gone from her place on Monday, and then things would cool down as they inevitably did with the two of them. Without his looming presence in her home, she could handle anything. She also knew from years of experience that she could handle being in love with him and being only friends. She also knew she would never go beyond friendship with him. The time for that had passed her by, and she would not be enough for him. Not anymore.

When she and Harm had been debating on how to arrange the throw pillows for maximum effect, she finally realized what the motives behind his actions for this entire weekend had been. That revelation had occurred after their impromptu pillow fight. The fight had begun because she'd flung a pillow at him, exasperated by his long-winded speech on how throw pillows couldn't haphazardly be thrown onto her bed –despite their name – but needed to be arranged carefully. He'd retaliated in kind. The next thing she knew, she was lying on her bed, trying to shield her head with her arms, while Harm straddled her and pummelled her with a pillow. She'd been laughing hard, having a great time, when the pummelling had stopped. She'd looked up at Harm, wondering why he'd stopped, to find him staring back at her, his expression tender and his eyes dark with that steady anticipation he was wearing so much lately.

The air had rushed out of her lungs, and the feel of him straddling her middle while she lay under him made her feel things she did not want to feel. He'd slowly leaned down towards her. His one hand was on the bed just by her ear, and his other caressed the side of her face. She'd closed her eyes for one moment, whether to savour his touch or shore her resolve, she couldn't be sure. Then she'd taken a deep breath and before his face could get too close to hers, she'd put her hand on his chest to stop him.

"Fine," she'd said. "We'll arrange the pillows your way." She'd awkwardly slipped out from under him and begun picking up the mess they'd scattered in the wake of their pillow fight. He'd sat in silence in the middle of her bed for a moment, and then he'd resumed arranging the pillows. And he'd ended up arranging them in an odd mix of their preferences – half haphazardly thrown into place, half carefully arranged.

That exact moment when she'd seen the look in his eyes, she knew what his ulterior motive had been, the one she had detected when he'd invited himself over for dinner. When she noted his final arrangement of the throw pillows, she knew why he was being patient with her, and why he'd spent 40 minutes picking out bed sheets and many more helping her revamp her room: he was using this time at her place to try and move their relationship forward.

She realized that he would not take no for an answer. The determined, single-minded, obsessively persistent Harm was back, and he wasn't going to listen to her.

She also realized that she needed to set him straight. Tell him why things between the two of them would never go where he wanted them to. They needed closure. It would be hard. Hell, the last time she'd had to bare her soul in such a way was while she was drying out. It had been the most difficult thing she'd ever done, talking about her parents and Eddie and Chris to Uncle Matt, but she'd weathered it and come out all the stronger. Maybe it was time again. Maybe it was way overdue. But she could do it. She would.

Her plan was to tell him tonight, after dinner. So now they were sitting on her couch – the dinner dishes long cleared away –, watching a movie and she was trying her damndest not to let him detect her anxiety. She was also trying her damndest to find a way to start this conversation.

"You okay, Mac?"

"What?" She jumped, startled by his question.

"You seem on edge." He was watching her carefully.

She closed her eyes and sighed. So much for hiding her anxiety.

"I'm fine, Harm. I, ah ..." She didn't know how to say what she had to say. She looked at her hands and then the coffee table, before returning her gaze to her hands.

"Whatever it is, you can tell me." He slowly trailed his fingers along her cheek, much as he'd done earlier in the day, on her bed.

It was the last straw. She turned away from his touch and decided to just jump into the deep end and hope for the best. Just jump in. Hope for the best.

"Paraguay confirmed what I'd allowed myself to ignore all along."

He dropped his hand by his side. She felt his surprise at her words, but didn't wait for his response and she didn't look his way.

"When things get tough, and I mean really difficult, you're no different from anyone else."

She put up a hand to pre-empt any protests he might make.

"This is not on you, Harm. It's my fault, really, for expecting more. For expecting you to be more than human. Mine." She paused, knowing of only one way to make him understand. Yet this one way would open old wounds. But he deserved it, she reasoned. It would silence her guilt over her inadequacies.

"My mom..." She took a breath, tried to focus her thoughts. "She left because the situation was bad and I wasn't enough. She was abused off-and-on for years. I don't know when it started. I've no idea. But I do remember coming home from kindergarten one day to find her crying, bruised and bleeding from a split lip. I couldn't understand what had happened." She fixed her gaze to the far wall. That was her first visual memory. She remembered equally well that overwhelming feeling of anxiety and inadequacy that had been her shadow even before that day, and that had followed her until she joined the Marines. Stupidly, she thought she had conquered it.

"That means at least ten years of physical abuse. And I doubt that was the first time. He probably escalated. Started with the verbal to lay the groundwork, moved on to minor things that left her confused and second-guessing herself until one day she ended up being asked by her five-year old if she can kiss away the booboo." Her voice had risen as she spoke, and Mac stopped herself to regain control. She stared at her clasped hands. Power down. Now was not the time to get distracted. She was trying to make a point, to make things clear to Harm.

"So over ten years of abuse. And then she left because I couldn't give her what she needed. Left the situation and left me to fend for myself." She cleared her throat, still not looking at Harm. "You know, until I met her at my father's funeral, I thought she had taken the dog and left me. Turns out the dog followed her and then she abandoned him, too. She was too damaged, you know, to take care of herself even, let alone someone else. I understood that, almost twenty years later. I was disgusted, at first, all those years ago." Mac fanned out her hands then rubbed them together, slowly kneading her knuckles. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

"But I was at fault there, too. And I finally understood that. I wasn't strong for her. Until I was thirteen I just stayed in my room and covered my ears. Sometimes climbed into the tree outside my room – I could reach the branches through my window – and waited it out.

"Then I tried to protect her. Be strong for her. Too little, too late. I stepped between her and my dad's fist. No one at school helped, I don't think his CO or Marine buddies did, either. They had to know what was going on. They had to." She paused, frowned, waved her hand to dismiss her sudden doubts. "Hell, maybe they didn't. I don't know which is worse.

"But that and my mom's abandonment taught me something very important. No one would look out for me. Uncle Matt and the Marine Corps taught me that I could look out for myself. I learned the lesson well." She stopped, tried to organize her thoughts. This next bit was the hardest. She had left herself wide open for what she had known all along had to happen eventually, as it always did. Now she would have to admit it. To him. But she couldn't look at him.

"And then I met you and you seemed so … so different. A breath of fresh air in that musty closet I hid in. I let my guard down. You're not perfect, you're human, but you were so good to me that I let myself forget. You remember you told me that every time a man told me I was worth something, I pushed him away? I don't know if I agreed with that. Maybe I did keep you at arm's length all those years and that's my fault. And I paid the price for it because Paraguay happened and the situation was really bad and you left. I'm the one at fault. It escalated. I mean, we had problems before then: you didn't trust me; I resented you your lack of faith. It fulminated in Paraguay. I couldn't give you what you needed down there, couldn't understand. I wasn't enough. And you left."

She finally turned to face him, searched his face, "I still can't give you what you want, Harm. And I'm waiting for you to leave."

His face was a mask of hurt. She could fool herself into thinking those were tears in his eyes and not a trick of the light. He looked like he was trying to find the words that had eluded them both since the day they met. Maybe she had finally found hers.

"You don't need to say anything. I didn't tell you this for sympathy or understanding. I just," she just wanted to silence the guilt. But, if anything, it was clamouring even more loudly. She should never have looked at his face, his eyes. Guilt was drowning everything else out. Mac rubbed a hand across her eyes. "I just … I just wanted you to know that I understand. It didn't take me just under twenty years this time. I understand but I still don't know what I could have done differently, if I could've been what you needed down there. If I could ever be what you need. If I could ever be enough."

She turned away from the look of hurt on his face, knowing he was still trying to find the words.

"I was angry." His voice sounded distant. He could've been sitting a lifetime away, instead of right next to her.

"I know," she said quietly, staring at her clasped hands.

"I was hurt," he continued in the same distant tone and she wondered if he had heard her.

"I know," she could not manage more than a whisper.

"I gave up everything. You asked me once …" he trailed off, she felt him shift to face her fully on the couch.

"And I had finally accepted your answer. Then you changed it." She unclasped and re-clasped her hands.

"No. I would always have given up anything, everything. Always." The last word was said in a fierce whisper. He was trying to convince her. Or maybe himself. She couldn't tell.

She shook her head. "I should never have asked. It was selfish. I just wanted the security … safety. I should never have asked for more than you could afford to give. I should never have asked you for anything, never have expected--"

"It's always been your right to ask, Mac." He reached over to place his hand over hers. She pulled away from him, slid further down the couch. Dismay overran his features.

"Let's not kid ourselves, Harm." She looked at him and sighed. It sounded wistful to her own ears, but she couldn't stop herself. "You were so different from any man I'd ever met before, Harm. You genuinely cared for me. How could I not fall in love with you?"

His eyes momentarily widened at her admission before a deep sadness settled in them. He was watching her steadily, and she realized that he still wouldn't take her at her word. He would try and convince her that she was wrong about him, about them. She felt the absurd compulsion to laugh. Or to cry. She couldn't be sure. Back at the taxi stand in Paraguay, she'd wanted a fight; a reassurance that she wasn't fooling herself into thinking that he cared for her in a way no one else ever had. Hell, it was a stupid thing to do. She still didn't know what had possessed her down there, why she hadn't been able to think beyond her exhaustion and the adrenaline withdrawal. At least she'd found out the truth. Now though, she just wanted to spare them both the pain of empty hopes. She never thought she'd say the words. She especially never thought she'd say them as an end rather than a beginning.

"I came back," the conviction in his tone was stronger. She forced her gaze back to his, and saw his determination. It saddened her. She thought she could feel her heart slowly ungluing at the seams.

"To work. Be honest, Harm. Look: I know it didn't flow both ways, back then, before Paraguay. You had different priorities. Something changed for you. It wasn't me, though. It was something else. The situation, maybe. It doesn't matter: it wasn't me." She looked him in the eye, tried to convey just how sincere she was. "I can't be what you need anymore, Harm. I just, I can't." She remembered his words from years ago. "You'll never lose me. I promise you that. And you don't need me ... not in that way. I promise you that, too."

She stood up. He looked so lost … She ignored the urge to place a kiss on his forehead, to comfort him; instead, she forced her feet to walk away.

"You're wrong about this, Mac." He stood up and grasped her hand. He turned her to face him, but she kept her eyes fixed on his feet.

"Mac." She could feel his silent stare, but refused to look up. "Mac," he repeated softly. He placed their clasped hands over his heart. She felt its rapid, heavy beat beneath her fingers, and tears came to her eyes. Why was he doing this. Couldn't he see things would be better for both of them if he just listened to her?

He cupped her jaw and ducked his head to catch her eye. "Sarah, I..."

She looked up at him through her tears. "Just," she paused, swallowed the tears that were drowning her words. "Just think about it, Harm. Don't say anything, not tonight. You..." She knew anything he said or did tonight would be driven by impulse, like that kiss on the Admiral's deck. The only time, she thought, that he might have been honest with her, and it was all out of desperation. A denial of who he was. She fought back a new wave of tears. "Don't say anything. Not ... Not now."

He stared at her silently, searching her eyes for any indication of what she really wanted. Finally, he nodded silently, relenting.

She pulled her hand from his grasp, away from his chest, turned away and entered her bedroom, shutting the door behind her, never once looking at him. She did the right thing; it needed to be done.

She also did the right thing in walking away tonight, giving him time to think before he reacted. Otherwise, she knew he would press his point until she could do nothing but concede or get confrontational. Raise her white flag or fight to the death. Her heart wasn't up to doing either. Mac stood with her back against her bedroom door. She sighed as she stared at the ceiling. He needed to think about what she said, and then he would see the truth in her words. He would accept the truth and then she would stop feeling guilty for being unable to meet his expectations.

He would accept it and he would keep moving away from her, as he had been doing since Paraguay. And then he'd be gone.

With that thought, the weight of all she'd said slammed her in the gut, and cut her legs out from underneath her. Mac leaned heavily against the door, her eyes wide and unseeing in the darkness. Her lungs felt too small and her heart was beating too fast. Mac swallowed, tried to calm her heartbeat and her breathing. She frowned, swallowed again. Guilt was still there, same as before, loud and demanding. She took one deep breath and then another. But there was something else too, something that was squeezing her lungs and hammering her heart … What the hell was that?

It was unnerving, whatever it was. It punched at her gut with fists of lead. She struggled for her every breath, gasping for air. Calm down, Mackenzie, she ordered herself. Breathe. Mac put a hand to her chest, the other clutched the doorknob. She felt … she felt … she didn't know what she felt. Whatever it was, it sure as hell didn't feel good. Felt like she was breathing through a stir stick. What had she done? What had she said? But it needed to be said. She needed to say it. He needed to realize that she couldn't do it. It hurt too much.

Mac rubbed her chest in an attempt to soothe her hammering heart. It was all for the best. She took one deep breath, then two. Best for them both. Her breathing was returning to normal. He needed a family – he'd acquired the steady responsibility of parenthood and liked the taste. He needed to feel needed. She couldn't give him that. Another deep breath and another. There, now she felt slightly better. She couldn't be the family he needed and the family that needed him. He cared for her, yes. He always would, their bond ran too deep for it to be any other way. But that was all and, she knew, that was plenty. Mac inhaled through her nose, exhaled through her mouth. Better. That was much better.

She looked at her new bedspread for a moment before crawling under her sheets. She stared at her freshly painted walls and the bright new curtain. Then she turned and buried her face in her pillow.

It still didn't feel right. None of this felt right. Damn it. Would she ever sleep again?

--


	5. Awkward Beasts, Steady Glow

Disclaimer: Don't own'em.

A/N: You guys all sound so sad in the reviews... Remember: 11 parts. Chin up, hang in there.

--

**Squatter – Part 5**

**Awkward Beasts, Steady Glow**

Mac's Apartment  
Monday  
0701 Local

Mac quietly entered her apartment. The last thing she wanted to do was face Harm. She still felt raw from last night, and knew she wouldn't be able to deal with him with any degree of equanimity if he decided that he was angry at her for what she'd said. He'd see things her way eventually, though; of that, she was certain.

She'd have to see him at work, it was inevitable. And, despite her conviction that she'd done the right thing, she still felt ... she sighed. She didn't know what she felt. In any case, to chase away the feelings of ... of whatever the hell it was she was feeling, she'd stopped by the baker's on her way back from her morning jog and bought him his favourite Wild Blueberry Granola muffin. She didn't know why she'd done it, or what it would accomplish, but she couldn't help herself. She told herself it was because she didn't want him to think she hated him, or didn't appreciate his friendship.

Mac carefully placed the bag with the muffins on the kitchen counter and slipped into her room to take a shower. She made sure to lock her bedroom door behind her. She hoped she'd be halfway to Falls Church before Harm even woke up.

Half an hour later, Mac slipped back out of her room, showered and dressed for the day. She entered the kitchen to grab the muffin she'd bought for herself and decided she'd just grab a coffee somewhere on her way to work. She stopped abruptly in the doorway to her kitchen when she saw Harm sitting at the table with his muffin and a cup of coffee, reading the newspaper.

She didn't know what to do. She wished she'd just left without seeking out her stupid muffin. She wasn't ready for a confrontation. Should she say something? Say good morning? Or just grab her muffin and run?

She knew she should decide on what to do quickly, before...

Harm looked up and caught site of her. He nodded towards his muffin before returning his attention to the paper in front of him. "Thanks for the muffin." His tone was conversational, his face impassive. He sounded ... normal.

This was good. He didn't sound snarky or resentful. This was good.

"Uhh..." This was good, but his demeanour still caught her off guard. This was unlike him. She had no reference point she could use to figure out what he was thinking. She couldn't help but stare at him The dark circles beneath his eyes dug their claws into her heart. She struggled to keep her breathing steady.

"I made you some coffee. It's on the counter, in the travel cup." He pointed towards it without looking up from his paper. His tone was normal...yet he wasn't looking at her. She didn't know what he was thinking ... She couldn't tell...

She decided to stop trying to figure it out. She was worried he'd be angry. He didn't seem to be, and she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Thanks." She picked up the cup and her muffin. Her hands were not shaking.

"I'll see you at work." She mumbled over her shoulder as she left the kitchen.

"See you there, Sarah." His reply followed her into the living room, to the front door.

Mac closed her apartment door behind her and leaned against it. She closed her eyes, took two deep steadying breaths. She waited for her hands to stop shaking and for relief to dull the sharp pain that stabbed her chest with each heartbeat. She counted to ten, opened her eyes, and pushed herself off the door. Time to start getting through day. Thank god he would not be spending any more nights at her place. Today was Monday – day four – which meant the work on his place was done. It also meant she would no longer have to worry about him and the feelings of inadequacy that fluttered in his wake.

She was halfway down the corridor when she realized he'd called her by her given name. He'd been doing a lot of that lately. She wondered why. What did he think of when he called her by her name? Mac shook her head in the empty corridor, dismissing the question. She didn't want to think about it, so she decided she wouldn't.

--

JAG HQ  
Monday  
1315 Local

Mac sat at her desk, reviewing her notes from her morning court session. She was due to deliver her closing arguments tomorrow morning and she needed to focus. The one thing she was not going to lose control of, the one place where she was not going to lose control was work. Everything else could go to hell in a hand basket, but she would not be a disappointment at this, not when the Marines had gotten her through so much worse. Not when Uncle Matt had gotten her through so much. She wished he wasn't in jail, so she could just talk to him, spend time with him. He was a stabilizing force for her. Not that she needed any help, necessarily—

"Mac."

Mac looked up from her work, startled. Harm was leaning against her doorjamb, watching her. How long had he been there? They hadn't had much contact during the day. But then, she'd been in court all morning and hadn't gone out of her way to seek him out. Actually, she hadn't sought him out at all. She didn't know how to act around him.

"I seem to be startling you quite a lot lately." His gaze was thoughtful.

"No, no." She pointed to the notes on her desk with her pen. "Working on closing arguments."

She'd meant it as a comment, an excuse really to explain her inattention. But Harm took it as an invitation. He entered her office and seated himself on a visitor's chair.

"The Carver case?" He peered at the file across the desk. "Hey, if you want to run them by me..."

He trailed off and dropped his gaze to study his hands. But she still heard the last word in his sentence, the one he didn't voice: _Tonight. _She studied him carefully, thinking it was a strange offer to make. He was going back to his apartment. And after last night...

He looked up and met her gaze. There was something different in him, but she couldn't place it. She sighed and buried the thought. It didn't matter; she wouldn't be spending so much time with him anymore.

"Mac?"

She refocused her gaze on him, once again pulled out of her thoughts. "Uh, yeah?"

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Harm." She softened the edge in her voice, and repeated, "I'm fine."

He pursed his lips. His stare was hard and unyielding. He didn't believe her. She didn't have the strength to care.

"So, what's up?" She adopted her friendliest tone.

He watched her for a moment, before seeming to come to a decision.

"I have to go my apartment, have an appointment with my contractor at 1400." He leaned back casually in his chair, one arm resting on his thigh and the other on the armrest.

"Okay." She figured he was telling her as a courtesy. Truthfully, she was still surprised he hadn't stopped speaking with her after last night. "Is your apartment all fixed?"

"Don't know. I'll find out soon enough." He paused, studied her carefully. He seemed to be doing a lot of that. She wished he'd stop. She waited for him to continue.

"Thanks, Mac. For letting me stay at your place." He smiled slightly, just an upturn of the corner of his lips. "And for sharing your grandmother's dish with me."

The way he phrased it, as though it meant more than it did – after all, she'd only cooked dinner to return the favour, hadn't she? – made her feel conscious.

"I should be thanking you. I have a brand new bedroom."

"I enjoyed doing that, Mac." He leaned further back into his chair, lifted up one shoulder in a casual shrug. "We work well together."

"It's 1320." She needed to change the subject. "You should get going if you don't want to be late for your appointment."

He watched her for a moment before nodding and rising from the chair. He turned and left her office.

She took a deep breath as she watched his retreating form. It was all over now. Thank god, she thought. Thank god. She did not acknowledge the small, hard kernel of sadness that had lodged itself deep in the centre of her heart.

--

Mac's Apartment  
Monday  
2012 Local

Mac turned her key in the lock. She was looking forward to coming home to a silent, dark apartment. She was. She hadn't stayed late at work even though she didn't have much to do because she was avoiding coming home, to a silent and dark apartment. She hadn't stopped by the Chinese restaurant to pick up dinner when she could just as easily have had it delivered, just to avoid coming home to a silent, dark apartment. She hadn't picked up dinner when she wasn't even hungry just to avoid coming home to a silent, dark apartment.

She wasn't going to delay going to bed, if not forego it completely, because her new bedroom was a glaring – though aesthetically pleasing – reminder of Harm. Just because he'd spent forty minutes picking out bed sheets for her, an hour looking at paint samples, and a weekend lifting and moving and assembling furniture ... It didn't mean a thing. Just because she may no longer be kept awake by Sadiq's presence in her room, but Harm's ... It didn't mean a thing.

She couldn't afford to re-redecorate. What was the policy for returning used bed sheets and half-full cans of paint? Stupid. She was being stupid. She couldn't return the bedroom, just as she couldn't redo the fourth grade. Just as she couldn't fix her screwed up life. She'd live with the bedroom and live through her screwed up life, just as she'd lived through the fourth grade.

Mac pushed open her door. She squared her shoulders. She _was_ looking forward to coming home to a silent dark apartment. She _was_...

She stopped with one foot in her apartment, the other still in the hallway. The lights in her apartment were all on. She could hear the sounds of cutlery clinking and cooking in the kitchen. She saw Harm's travel bag sitting on the floor by the entrance. His coat hung on the hooks by the door. His shoes lined against the wall.

What was he doing here? Had his apartment not been fixed yet? Or did he want to talk about last night?

A sudden unease made her palms sweat and tied her stomach in knots. Was she ready to see him again? So soon?

Mac glanced towards her bedroom and then the kitchen. She wiped her palms on her skirt and headed towards the kitchen.

He was chopping some vegetables on the counter, by the stove. His back was to her. She debated going back to her room and changing out of uniform, anything to put off this conversation for a little while longer. She was about to turn around, when Harm glanced over his shoulder and saw her standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

He turned around to face her while wiping his hands on the dishtowel he'd slung over his shoulder. He leaned against the counter.

"Hey, Mac." He waved a hand over the kitchen. "I hope you don't mind."

She shook her head slightly.

"Of course not." It wasn't a lie, not really. She didn't know why he was here, so she didn't know if she minded the reasons for his presence in her kitchen. "Is everything okay with your apartment?"

He looked away for the briefest of moments before shaking his head. "Apparently, the problem is much more serious than the repair guy had originally thought. It could take up to another week."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

They stared at each other in silence. So he would be staying for another week. Would he be staying for another week? She wiped her palms against her skirt. She could handle this for another week. She could.

"I don't want to impose," He looked away, shrugged in a gesture of unease, "So I can, uh, book a room or maybe—"

"Don't be silly, Harm." She cut him off. "It's fine. You're welcome to stay here." She tried to smile through her misgivings.

"Thanks, Mac." He looked much too sincere and grateful for her liking. This was getting incredibly awkward. She struggled to lighten the moment.

"Mi casa es su casa." She kept her smile firmly in place.

"Does the same go for the corvette?" He grinned.

"No." Her smile turned genuine. He really was getting good at slaying those beasts of awkwardness. Why did he want to stay? All they had left between them were the after burns of loyalty and awkward moments. Her expression sobered at the thought.

"What is it, Mac." He rested his hands behind him on the counter, leaned back, crossed one ankle over the other.

"You, ah, you really want to stay? Here? After ..." she sighed, glanced at the counter then back at him. "After ... everything?"

"You promised I'd never lose you, right?" His eyes never left her face as he asked the question.

She nodded, suddenly wary of where he might be going with this line of questioning.

"We're friends, right?"

She nodded again, surprised that he would consider her a friend after Sunday night. She didn't think she deserved his understanding, but it seemed that he did understand. The only other person who'd understood her in this way, without judging, without condemning, was serving a life sentence in Leavenworth. She didn't deserve two such people in her life. She blinked back her tears, hoping he wouldn't notice.

"Then yes, Marine, I do want to stay." He winked at her, grinning easily. Suddenly, the years melted away from his face, from his bearing. "And not for form's sake."

She broke out into a grin, and thought her kitchen suddenly seemed brighter. He was still her friend. It was enough. It was plenty. Hell, it was more than she was worth.

"So," he nodded towards the bag of takeout in her hand. She'd forgotten about it. "What's for dinner?"

"Oh." She couldn't remember what she'd ordered. Not that she'd only ordered it to avoid coming home to a dark, silent apartment. "I hadn't..."

"Well, I doubt there's enough there for the both of us." He said casually, sparing her the misery of coming up with an explanation. "Save it for lunch. I'm whipping us up something good. Consider it down payment on my staying another few days."

He shot her a grin as he pushed himself off the counter. She watched him as he turned around and resumed chopping. She realized that since Paraguay, she hadn't been eating as well or as consistently as she'd been in the last four days.

She shook her head to dismiss whatever implications entailed from that thought, and headed towards her bedroom to change. She did not acknowledge the tiny glimmer of relief that glowed steadily in the centre of her heart.

--


	6. Consumed with a Kiss

Disclaimer: Don't own'em.

A/N: It must be unorthodox for someone to praise their own stuff, but I really like how this part turned out. I think if it were a picture, I'd tattoo it on my arm (umm, or maybe just frame it and hang it on a wall somewhere).

--

**Squatter – Part 6**

**Consumed with a Kiss**

**-- **

Mac's Apartment  
Tuesday  
1809 Local

Mac heard Harm enter her apartment and head to her bedroom to change. She stared at the pot of chilli on the stove. She was cooking chilli to thank Harm. For being a friend. Yet she couldn't chase the feeling that part of her was doing it to make amends to him. For what? Damned if she knew. And she sure as hell couldn't understand why she felt the need to do it with food. She abandoned her thoughts when she heard Harm walk into the kitchen.

"Oh my goodness," The surprise in his tone caused her to look at him, concerned. He grinned. "Is Sarah MacKenzie cooking twice in the same week?"

"Keep that up and you're not going to get any," she warned, waving the spoon she was using to stir their dinner with at him.

"You have my solemn oath. Scout's honour." He put a hand over his heart and held the other up, three fingers raised. "So, Chef Mackenzie, What're you making?" He came to stand behind her, and peeked over her shoulder.

"Vegetarian chilli." She turned slightly and lifted the spoon towards him. "Taste."

He looked at the spoon and then at her, eyebrow raised.

"Fine." She rolled her eyes. He could be such a kid sometimes. "Don't taste." She made to turn back towards the stove.

He grabbed her wrist, grinning, and pulled the spoon she was still holding towards him, taking it in his mouth. He held her gaze as he chewed. She watched as his expression went from teasing to impressed.

"Wow, Mac. This is incredible." He kept his hold on her wrist.

"Thanks." She thought she was smiling much too widely, but couldn't stop herself. There was something inexplicably satisfying about having someone praise her cooking. Maybe because she never really cooked much for anyone but herself. She pulled her wrist from his grasp and returned her focus to their dinner.

"Whoa. Wait. Stop the press." She could hear the grin in his voice. "Did you say vegetarian?"

"Yeah." She tried to make it sound like it wasn't a big deal. "I figured if you cooked real red meat, beef no less, for dinner, and helped me redecorate, I could return the favour. Next time I make anything, though, it's going to be a big fat juicy steak."

"I'll make you steak tomorrow." His words were tentative and she could tell he was trying to sound casual.

"What?" She turned to stare at him, sure she had misheard. Where did that come from? She wasn't asking him to cook for her.

"The butcher had some great steak meat when I went there to pick up the beef on Thursday. The good stuff." He gave her a teasing grin.

She fidgeted slightly and broke eye contact. His offer made her feel awkward.

"You don't have to do that." She turned back to face the stove, fumbling for a way to pull out of a situation she knew would sink her.

Harm leaned on the counter beside her.

"It's nothing." He shrugged. "I've made steak before. And it's not like I have to eat it."

"But that's silly," she insisted.

"What? Making steak. Hey, I agree but you're the one who likes the stuff," his teasing grin was still in place, but she could see the effort it was costing him to keep it there.

Mac stirred the contents of the pot in front of her for a few seconds, and considered his offer. The idea of him making steak – obviously for her since he didn't like it – was discomfiting. Especially after what she'd said Sunday night and the agreement she thought they'd reached last night. What was he doing. She wanted to change the subject, but she could think of nothing to say and the silence was unnerving her. He was waiting for her answer.

"Where did you learn to cook steak?" It was all she could think of to say.

When he didn't reply, she chanced a glance at him. He was studying his feet, looking a little … embarrassed?

"Harm?"

He cleared his throat. "Keeter and I took cooking classes together."

"What? Why?" She couldn't keep the amusement out of her voice. The idea of him and Keeter signing up for cooking classes was enough to make her laugh.

"We, ah, well …" he trailed off. His head was bowed and he was looking up at her – a surprising feat given that he was taller than her. Little AJ had been wearing that same look once when he'd told Harriet that he'd flushed Jimmy's favourite toy car down the toilet.

This was going to be good. She couldn't wait to hear the rest of it. She'd use the information to tease him, and firmly place them away from any of the awkwardness associated with him making her steak.

"It was a great way to pick up women." He shrugged lightly, but she would have sworn he was blushing.

Mac burst into laughter.

"You took cooking lessons to pick up women?" She managed to say in between waves of laughter. She braced herself on the counter with one hand, the other on her chest. This was too funny.

He rubbed one hand behind his neck, looking sheepish.

"That takes the cake!" She couldn't stop laughing.

"Actually, it was all entrées," he offered, a smile threatening to break across his face.

She laughed even harder and he joined in. A few minutes later, she leaned back against the kitchen counter as her laughter subsided into the occasional chuckle.

"You two are something else," she said, shaking her head in amusement.

"So," he persisted, his eyes bright with humour, "You'll let me cook you steak?"

"You really don't need to do that Harm." She sobered at his repeated offer. She pushed herself away from the counter, and checked on the chilli that was still simmering on the stovetop.

"It's not a big deal, Mac." He was using his plea bargaining tone on her.

It felt like a big deal to her. Whenever she'd been to his place for dinner in the past, he'd cook seafood or white meat or just plain vegetarian food. Suddenly he was making red meat dishes twice in five days? It was a big deal.

"Hey, I've done it before. It's not a big deal," he repeated.

She didn't point out that he'd done it before to pick up women. Couldn't he see that it wouldn't work? Why wasn't he getting the message.

"Harm," she warned.

"What now." Impatience and annoyance were evident in his tone. It frustrated her that he was being so difficult about this. She would not let him cook her steak.

"You can grill chicken or something if you insist on cooking. But you are not making steak."

He remained silent for almost one minute.

"You know what, Mac," his tone was quiet. He sounded defeated. "You promised I'd never lose you. I think I already have."

She turned to look at him and realized that he had walked up right behind her, only a few inches from her. She shook her head vehemently.

He watched her silently, steadily. He was going to be stubborn about this. She braced herself for the blowout she knew was coming.

"It's true. Hell, prove me wrong," he challenged. He seemed to be standing much too close to her, his arms crossed over his chest. The stove was behind her, preventing her from putting some distance between them.

She looked up at him, desperate to end this conversation, not knowing how to.

"I did what I could to help you with Mattie," she finally found her voice. "You're staying in my apartment, aren't you? I would do whatever I could for you, Harm."

"You're not letting me in." He persisted. She stood her ground, but the room seemed to enclose around her. Her eyes darted back and forth, looking for an escape.

"I can't." She wanted to yell, she could only manage a weak whisper.

"Why the hell not?" He raised his voice. She didn't know how to react to his anger, his insistence. Why wasn't he letting this go?

"I – I have nothing …"

"You keep on saying that Mac! I just think you're afraid you'll get hurt." He had not moved from his position in front of her, yet somehow he seemed to be getting larger, looming above her. She tightened her grip on the handle to the oven door behind her.

She looked away from his face, then back again. "I am." She whispered, because it was the truth and because she hoped it would stop him from saying anything further. Her voice was shaking. "Terrified."

"Give me a chance, Sarah." His gentle request almost broke her. Almost.

"I have none lef—"

"Don't say it, Mac." Desperation was overshadowed by anger. "Don't say it. I don't believe you." He spat the words out.

She felt the heat from the stovetop and the pot of chilli on her back and elbows. Her brain told her she should move soon, that her skin could not tolerate the heat. But anger was getting the better of her. She tightened her grip on the oven door's handle, this time to keep from hitting something.

"Damn it, Harm!" She matched his tone. "Can't you leave this alone? Leave me alone!"

"No! No, I can't," he hissed, his eyes boring holes through hers. "Because finally, finally, after all these years I realized that you have always been the best thing in my life. And I'm not going to let another day go by without you knowing it. You've centered me for so long—"

She shook her head violently. How could he say that, after everything—

"You have, Mac. You have" The hard edge to his words disappeared, his eyes were full of affection and focussed on her.

She shook her head again, closed her eyes to keep from looking at him. "No. No. You don't need me like you think you do."

"I do! Christ, Mac –" the hard edge was back, sharpening his words.

"No!" She opened her eyes to look at him, and forced herself to lower her voice. "No you don't. Look how much you've changed in the last year. Grown. And I didn't have a damn thing to do with it. You weren't even speaking to me." She couldn't hide the sadness behind her words.

"You had everything to do with it. Everything," he emphasized each word. She wanted to believe him, but she knew she would just be fooling herself.

"No," she whispered, trying to move away from him, away from the stove that was overheating her skin.

He held her arm to keep her in place. She looked anywhere but at his face.

"Mac. I know what you're doing. I know you. You think that if you can convince me that I don't feel the way I do about you, if I don't want in on your life, then you won't be in a position to hurt me. You won't disappoint me and then I won't leave. Mac. This here, this distance, it's hurting me. It's disappointing me. But, Mac." He shook her arm gently. "Mac, look at me."

She raised her eyes to his. He enunciated each word as he spoke, coated each with an impregnable determination.

"Sarah, I am not going anywhere."

"You did last time." He could not deny the truth. The precedent had been set. He could not deny that.

"It was immature of me, Mac. And selfish. I didn't realize it at the time." He paused, and again caught her eye, refusing to let go. "I never make the same mistake twice, Sarah."

Leave it to him to tunnel his way through her logic.

"I don't know if I can make this work …"

"You've been my rock for years, Mac." He had only ever looked at her this way once before, on the night she was meant to be celebrating her engagement to another man. "Let me be your rock for a little while"

"It won't … You won't …" Why couldn't he understand? What else could she say? "I can't be what you want..."

"Damnit, Mac. You're just buying into that bullshit Sadiq fed you. The bullshit Webb didn't bother to disabuse you of."

"That's not—" She looked up at him sharply. Wait. Suspicion took root in her mind. How could he possibly …

"How do you know what Sadiq said?"

"I, ah, I made a few friends in the CIA during my stint there." He had the grace to look guilty, but he was not offering any apologies. She supposed that if the situations were reversed, she would have fought to get her hands on the tape.

"You heard the tape." It was a statement, not a question. All this time, he knew.

"I heard the tape," he nodded once, slowly.

She didn't know how she felt about that.

Part of her wanted to know what he thought of her, of the situation and how she'd handled it. But she didn't want to ask, she didn't know if she could even formulate the words. He must have understood her struggle, because he answered the unvoiced question.

"I'm so damn proud of you, Sarah."

She thought she detected the ghost of a smile, thought he stood slightly taller.

"But ... but he said—"

"He was nothing but hate." Harm cut her off, not giving a chance to voice her doubts out loud. "That's all he was made of. Hate. _You_ have to let _that_ go." His hand tightened around her arm.

"I can't be what you need." She repeated, searching his eyes for understanding.

"Stop it, Mac. You already are. You're more than I deserve. How can I convince you? What do I have to do for you to trust me again?"

"Harm." Why couldn't he see what she saw? Why was he doing this.

"Don't say it, Mac. Look. I told you. I was hurt and angry."

"The situation was tough," she supplied, nudging him in the direction he needed to go.

"It was," he acknowledged.

"That's my point, Harm. That's what I'm trying to tell you. I forgot that it's in our nature, all of us, to protect ourselves the best we can. I hurt you in Paraguay and you left to protect yourself. I've done the same with you, _to_ you, when things got too tough to handle. This is not your fault. It's what we do, you and I. We run away from each other. You deserve better." She fixed her eyes on his shirt pocket, and refused to look at him.

"Mac." He grabbed her by the shoulders, made her name a plea.

She would not look at him. He wasn't listening. Why couldn't he see?

"Mac." He shook her to get her attention. "Look at me."

She tried to extricate herself but he wouldn't let her go. Reluctantly, her eyes met his. The desperation and determination she saw put her on guard; she had never seen him like this.

Suddenly, abruptly, he pulled her to him, causing her to lose her footing. She grabbed his shoulders to keep from falling. Then his lips were on hers. His arms wrapped around her so firmly, she didn't know where she ended and he began. He was kissing her, hot and heavy and demanding. She was too surprised to react.

And then his tongue was in her mouth and something exploded inside her, flames licked through her veins, and scorched her heart. She felt one of his hands tangle in her hair, then run down her back, burning her more effectively than the stove behind her. His other hand held her by the waist, and then her hip, pulling her nearer, making demands she'd waited years for. She wanted to get lost in his touch, get lost in the trail of heat he was tracing over her body. A part of her brain reminded her that this was all it would be: a sensory experience, powerful and superficial – that was all. She'd hate herself if she let this continue. He'd hate her if she selfishly gave in.

Mac tried to pull away, to push him away, but his hand on her back didn't let her. His other hand slid down her waist, her thigh, pulling her even closer to him. Impossibly, he deepened the kiss. His tongue, his hands, his arms, his entire body was pulling her in deeper, drinking in everything she had. She had nothing left, and yet, and yet, he was managing to find parts of her even she didn't know still existed. Or maybe she'd forgotten. She leaned further into him, unsure if she could stand under his onslaught, and felt the hard muscles of his body against her. She hadn't felt this much in so long. Hadn't felt this ... good. Distantly, she heard herself moan. It was a sound filled with abandon. To her own ears it was laden with desperation. The realization hit her like a bucket of ice. _No_.

She violently twisted herself away from him, her eyes not leaving his face. She took three steps away. Away from the fire in his touch, away from the heat of the stove. The cold air in the kitchen slammed into her back; she suppressed a shiver. Mac wrapped one arm around her waist in a protective gesture, the other covered her mouth.

_No_. What had she done? What had she just done?

He opened his eyes and stared at her. She could not read his expression. His shirt was crumpled, his gaze unfocused, his lips still parted, his breathing heavy, every muscle in his body tense ... His hands fell to his sides, his shoulders slumped.

They kept staring at each other, panting, struggling to catch their breath.

What had she done? This was not the answer. She had learned that early enough in her life with Chris. She had given him a part of her that he had never returned; it had left her feeling used and cheapened. She had been reminded of that with Clay. The sex had been great, but that was all it was. She had only fooled herself into thinking it was intimacy. He had taken parts of her and left her empty and hollow. She would not do that to Harm. With Harm. He would take away the essence of her – hell, he had almost done just that with one kiss – and then she would have nothing. Nothing to defend herself with. Nothing to define herself with. Nothing.

"Sarah." She barely refrained from covering her ears at the sound of his tongue caressing the vowels and kissing the consonants in her name. It almost shattered her resolve to protect them both.

Her vision blurred and she realized she had tears in her eyes. Hastily, she wiped them away. His expression changed from unreadable to one she was on familiar terms with: Regret and guilt.

She didn't have the energy to deal with this. She couldn't…

"I'm—" Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again, this time louder. "I'm fine. It's okay."

He took a step towards her. She put a hand out to stop him.

"It's okay." She repeated, looking away from him.

"I'm sorry." There was such pain in his voice, her heart broke again. She didn't know it still could.

"No." No apologies. Not from him. "No." She walked to her bedroom. Her hand on the doorknob, she stopped and without looking at him, "You have nothing to be sorry for. I can't. I…"

She shut the door behind her and locked it.

Mac crawled into bed, buried herself under her quilt and her head under her pillow. She took a deep breath and then the tears fell, large and wet and uncontrollable. She mourned the loss of the person she thought she was and the reappearance of the demons she thought she had slain long ago.

Her tears soaked her bed sheets, her shoulders shook violently, and her sobs were heavy. She tried to be as quiet as she could. Not wanting Harm to hear. She hadn't cried this way since the night of her fifteenth birthday. She'd hated herself in the morning for those tears. Would she hate herself in the morning for these?

--


	7. Gone

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Hmm, mixed comments on that last part. Just hold on for a little while longer; after all, you did hold on for nine years of frustration on the show ... Don't quit now.

--

**Squatter – Part 7**

**Gone**

Mac's Apartment  
Wednesday  
0625 Local

Mac woke up from her fitful sleep. 87 minutes straight. And a deep sleep, at that. That was a record. It must be due to sheer exhaustion. She sighed. 87 minutes of uninterrupted sleep and yet she still felt like she had been awake all night. Last night had been—

Last night.

Last night's events rushed back to her. Harm standing in front of her, arms crossed. _You promised I'd never lose you. _His hand clutching her arm. The way he said her name. _Let me be your __rock_. His hands on her shoulders, around her waist, pressed into her back.The heat of the stove through her clothes. His lips on hers. His kiss. _You're afraid you'll get hurt. _His eyes holding that indecipherable message._ I'm so damn proud of you. _The look of hurt and guilt on his face before she turned around. Mac shut her eyes to block out the images. She would not cry. She would not cry.

Oh, god. That deep sense of unease rushed back full force. Mac put a hand over her heart and pressed down. The ache was still there.

Harm had probably left. Booked himself into a hotel somewhere. He would also probably avoid her at work. Maybe in a few weeks time, when he was talking to her again, she would see if she could salvage their friendship. If not … If not? Then what? They were both professional enough to keep working in the same office. Paraguay had proven that.

If not then he would be another person in a long list of people who had left her, whom she'd driven away. The irony of it was that she'd done all this just so that he wouldn't go away, wouldn't find fault in her enough to leave. She wouldn't be able to hurt him if he wasn't too deeply invested in her. Why did he have to kiss her? Why didn't he just listen to her and settle for having her as a friend? Then none of last night would have happened and she wouldn't have to, once again, learn how to lose.

Who was she kidding. She'd known since he came back to JAG that this is how it would end. He'd moved on without realizing it, and she was too far gone to catch up.

Mac pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She was not crying. She felt as though she was somehow bound to Harmon Rabb now, after that kiss by her stove. She would never get over this ... Mac looked at her bedroom door. She'd walk into her living room only to find him gone. And to find that he'd taken whatever was left of her with him. She _would_ get over this. She'd have to. It would take awhile, but maybe in about 50 years or so, the thought of him and the last year and last night – oh, god last night, she squeezed her eyes shut – wouldn't bring tears to her eyes and steep her heart in regret. Some mistakes couldn't be fixed. Some were just fodder for the life lessons that supposedly made people stronger, when all they really did was make people learn to live with less.

Mac stepped out of bed and walked to her bedroom door. She put one hand on the handle. Deep breath. Open the door. Just rip the band-aid off. She turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. Not a sound could be heard. She looked towards the couch; it was all done up. Rearranged properly, the pillow and blanket neatly folded and piled in a corner of the couch. She could not smell coffee or toast or breakfast. She couldn't see Harm's coat on the hook by the front door. His uniform shoes were gone. Mac closed her eyes. She was not crying.

She wanted this. For him. For them both.

She slowly made her way to the couch and fingered the neatly folded blanket. She looked one more time towards the door. His dress shoes were definitely not there ... Wait. She did a double-take. His running shoes were on the doormat, right next to hers. Mac frowned. He'd forgotten them? He must have left in a rush of anger and frustration, to have forgotten his running shoes.

Mac headed to the kitchen. She needed a cup of coffee. She'd set the percolator to start and then go for a quick shower – work, after all, waited for no man or woman. She opened the cupboard to take out the coffee and saw Harm's box of oatmeal. He should have taken it with him. She'd never touch the stuff. She'd hand it back to him with his running shoes at work today. Drop it in his office when he wasn't in, since she doubted he'd want to see her. And she didn't know if she could bear to see him just yet, not when she could still taste him on her tongue and feel his hands on her skin.

She set the coffeemaker and headed back towards her room. A black duffel bag lying behind her couch caught her eye. That was Harm's travel bag, the one he'd kept his civvies in while he'd been staying at her place. What the hell. Mac frowned. It was unlike him to forget that. Unless ... But, if he was still staying here, where was he? Mac quickened her pace and went into her washroom. All his toiletries were still there. Toothbrush. Shampoo. A couple of his razor blades. But...

Mac retraced her steps to the living room. She scanned the room for any more signs of his presence. Had he just left for work? So early? Her eyes stopped on the coffee table. There. A piece of paper. A note? She walked towards the table and sat down on the couch. She fingered the paper. It was a plain white sheet, folded in half. Her name was written on top in Harm's cursive. _Mac._

She picked it up tentatively and rubbed it between her thumb and index finger. For the first time in a very long time, she wished she had a stiff drink. Just to give her that false sense of courage that once upon a time had her doing much stupider things than opening a note she wasn't sure her heart could bear to read. She took a deep breath. She'd have to find some genuine courage from somewhere within herself instead. She thought of Uncle Matt and unfolded the note.

_Mac:_

_The General called early this morning. I have to go out of town for a couple of days to investigate charges of misconduct on the Henry, currently docked at Norfolk. I will be back Friday, Mac, and you and I are going to sit down and talk. I listened to what you had to say on Sunday, and kept my silence. I don't know if that was the right thing to do, but it was what you wanted. It's your turn: You're going to listen to what I have to say this Friday, Sarah._

_I can see that you're struggling with something, and I'm going to help you see it through. Whatever you want or don't want from me, whatever you feel or don't feel for me, I am not going to leave you to struggle alone. We can be resilient when we need to, Mac, but it always comes at a price: whenever we fight something alone, we lose a part of ourselves to that fight. I only learned that lesson when you came into my life, when you tracked me down on my fool's quest to avenge Diane's death, when you followed me to Russia on my half-cocked mission to find my father. You kept that part of me safe, you kept me from losing myself._

_You will not lose yourself to your fight. You have my word, Sarah._

_Harm. _

Mac stared at the note. She read it again. A third time. A fourth. She could not understand what he was telling her. It didn't make sense with all she'd been telling herself ever since she'd heard Clay welcome Harm into the CIA, ever since she'd left 17 unanswered messages on his machine. She clutched the note between her hands and stared at it until her vision blurred. Then she buried her face in the blanket and pillow Harm had neatly piled in the corner of the couch. They still smelled of him. She was not crying.

--

Mac's Apartment  
Wednesday  
2213 Local

Mac pulled her feet up on the couch and hugged her knees. She pointedly ignored the pile of case files, stacked on her coffee table, that she'd brought home from work. She looked around her living room. She could make out the outlines of her coffee table in the moonlight that filtered through her windows. She could make out the candlesticks and photo frames on her mantle, above the fireplace. There were photos of her godchildren in various poses, and photos of her and Chloe at one of their 'slumber parties' from a few years ago.

She hadn't spoken to Chloe in a while. Her little sister was in her freshman year of college, and busy figuring out her social life. Mac thought she'd call her over Christmas to wish her happy holidays. She'd have to make the call, not that she thought Chloe would miss it if she didn't, given how busy Chloe had been lately. Or maybe she would. She hadn't seen Chloe in person in so long, and with her new university life, her little sister was hard to get a hold of over the phone, and inconsistent in replying to emails ... She felt like she didn't have a solid idea of who the kid she'd brought to JAG, who'd attended her aborted wedding, was anymore. It was another relationship that had faltered, slipped from her grasp. Weakened.

Enough, Mac told herself. Enough. She wasn't sitting here thinking about those kinds of things. Enough.

Mac closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her knees. She was exhausted. She just wanted to sleep. And yet she knew she couldn't. Not when her stupid brain kept dissecting stupid things like old photos on her mantle. She wouldn't be able to get any sleep. Not the kind of sleep that left one rested and rejuvenated. Hell, she'd even forgotten what that felt like. What would it take to feel that again? To remember what a quiet sleep felt like?

Maybe if she sought out a prescription for sleeping pills, went to see a doctor? That might –_No._ What the hell was she thinking? Add another addiction to her list? She was an alcoholic, for god's sake. Did she really even want to touch that can of worms with a ten foot pole? No. She did not. It was better to stay away from all that. Better not to start down that road.

Mac looked at her closed bedroom door. Maybe if she just lay down in bed. Rested her head on her pillow and closed her eyes. Maybe sleep would come. Mac thought of her yellow-cream bed sheets, and her one deep burnt-orange wall. She thought of Harm sitting in the middle of her room, assembling her light fixture. She thought of the look in his eyes, when he was straddling her in the centre of her bed during their pillow fight. She remembered how the sunlight had caught in his hair and danced across his face. She remembered the longing and wonder in his gaze, the way his fingers felt as they trailed along her cheek; rough, calloused, gentle, tender...

She squeezed her eyes shut, and buried her head in her hands, elbows resting on her knees. It wouldn't do to think of him. It wouldn't do to think of that. It wouldn't do.

The note he had left for her was lying on the coffee table. She'd left it there this morning, before heading to work. Just to see if it would still be there when she came back, or if instead she'd imagined the whole thing out of some exhaustion-induced delirium. But no, it was still there. And it still contained the exact same words and message and sentiment as it had that morning.

She didn't know how to feel about it. _Whatever you want or don't want from me, whatever you feel or don't feel for me._ This was not the same man who'd left her after _Never_. She didn't know what to make of it. She supposed she would have a better idea of what to make of it all on Friday, when he came back and he sat her down to listen to whatever he had to say.

Mac opened her eyes, and looked around her room. She should switch on the lights. She should get some dinner, something to eat. She still had the Chinese take-out in the fridge. She wasn't really hungry, though. Maybe if she looked hard enough, she could find some leftover beef stroganoff. Or Faisinjan. She wondered how her chilli from last night turned out. She had forgotten about it.

She stood up and went to turn on the lights. Her hand hung in midair, above the light switch for a moment before she let it drop. In the darkness, she turned and made her way to the kitchen. A cup of tea would do just fine.

--

JAG HQ  
Thursday  
1635 Local

"Excuse me, Ma'am." Bud poked his head into Mac's office, flagging her attention.

She looked up from her work, and offered a smile.

"Hi, Bud."

Bud grinned in return.

"Harriet was wondering if you're able to come over for brunch on Sunday. It's been a while since we've gotten together outside the office. AJ's been asking non-stop about you. He loved the dinosaur model you gave him; carried it around with him everywhere for three weeks." Bud rambled.

Mac's smile turned genuine at learning of how much AJ enjoyed the gift, even as she tried to suppress her guilt. She'd shirked her duties as a godmother too, apparently. She hadn't been over to see AJ since the mess of Clay's 'death' and the discovery of her endometriosis.

"Of course, Bud. I'd love to." She could hardly refuse. Maybe it'd do her some good to see AJ and Jimmy. It usually did.

"Great! He'll be so excited." Bud himself seemed excited, and Mac wished she had his optimistic outlook on life. She wondered how he had the courage to overcome his bleak childhood and build his happiness with Harriet and the kids.

"Do you know if the Commander will be coming in today?"

"Uh, no." Mac tried to hide her anxiety at the mention of Harm.

"That's alright." Bud answered easily, oblivious to her discomfort. "I'll just give him a call and invite him over, too." Bud grinned at Mac, who tried to return his smile despite her unease. The thought of Harm was enough to make her nervous. She remembered his note, it was still lying on her coffee table and she still didn't know what to make of it. Or how she felt about it.

With a final nod, Bud headed back to his office. Mac sighed. Sunday brunch with the Roberts and Harm. Just like old times. She wondered if she would still fit into that setting now, after all that happened. She didn't think so. Well, she'd found out in a couple of days.

Mac began packing away her files and organizing her desk. She was securing early because she had a doctor's appointment. Tonight, she'd find out the extent of the damage caused by the endometriosis. Mac focused on packing away her files and clearing her desk and not thinking about the kids she may never have.

--

Mac's Apartment  
Thursday  
2008 Local

Mac opened her front door, dropped her briefcase to the floor, and stood still at the entrance to her apartment. She looked to her bedroom for a brief moment before heading to the couch and taking a seat.

She leaned back into the cushions. She needed to change out of uniform. Get some dinner ready. Go over some case files to finish the paperwork ... But she'd just sit here for a bit, first. She wanted to rest a while, listen to the silence in her dark, empty apartment. She wasn't that hungry, either. And she had until the morning to work on her paperwork.

Mac pulled her feet up on the couch and hugged her knees. She looked around her living room. This time, she wasn't looking at anything, wasn't seeing anything. All her attention was on the words she kept hearing. The words the doctor had told her just two hours ago at her appointment. _Less than four percent chance of conceiving._ Piss poor odds, she thought. Dismally weak, piss poor odds. She remembered Harm's note. In fact, his words had come to mind the moment the doctor had said _four percent_.

In 37 hours 43 minutes, his words had become a mantra for her. _You will not lose yourself to your fight._

_You have my word._

She couldn't explain the reasons why, but she believed him. He had never lied to her, never gone back on his word.

Maybe she wasn't alone. Well, even if she was, the thought of not being alone gave her immeasurable comfort. After tonight's news –_four percent_ – she needed something to hold on to. But could she accept that from him? Could she hold him to his word? _Four percent_. Harm deserved better than someone whose best was four percent. Four dismal, piss poor percent. She didn't know if she was angry or sad. She didn't know what she felt, and she sure as hell didn't want to think about it, so she just leaned back into the cushions on her couch and stared at the darkness.

She would not be getting much sleep tonight. Yet again. She should've just stopped by McCool's office, it was right down the hall, after all. A few steps away. But Harm's words had been running in a loop in her head, _you will not lose yourself to your fight_, so she hadn't stopped to seek out sleeping pills. She'd driven straight home and checked whether the note was real and lying on her coffee table, it wasn't a figment of her imagination.

He did seem intent on being there for her. Could that be the reason why he hadn't left for a hotel on Monday or Wednesday morning? She'd been difficult to be around, and yet ... He was still here. The realization wrapped its claws around her heart, tightened its grip until her heart struggled for each beat. She took one deep breath and another. She rubbed her hand over her chest in an attempt to ease the dull ache. He was _still_ here ... It didn't compute. She couldn't make sense of it. She wanted to stop thinking about it, yet she couldn't.

She didn't know how to feel about his ... support. How to react. What to think. Mac rested her forehead on her knees. She wished she could wrench herself out of this limbo. She wished she could pull herself out of the fog of uncertainty and doubt that had settled around her. She wished she could stop going from anger to sadness to guilt in one movement, over and over again. She wished she could sleep. She wished Harm was here, so she could see him instead of the yellow-cream sheets and one deep burnt-orange wall that lay behind her closed bedroom door.

--


	8. Rainbow Sprinkles

Disclaimer: Don't own'em

A/N: A lot happens here – I think you'll find your patience is partly rewarded.

--

**Squatter – Part 8**

**Rainbow Sprinkles**

JAG HQ  
Friday  
0930 Local

Mac answered her ringing phone without looking up from her computer screen. Today felt like it'd be a good day – she'd sensed it the moment she woke up. She was about to crack a case wide open – once she figured out what was bugging her about the two witness reports she was reading on her computer screen. And Harm was coming back from his trip this evening. Admittedly, she was a bit ambivalent about the talk they were meant to have. But she was looking forward to seeing him, feeling his solid presence in the same room. Hearing his voice...

"Mackenzie."

She kept her eyes on her screen, waiting for whoever was on the other end to respond. The only reply Mac received was silence. She looked up from her computer screen, frowning.

"This is Colonel Mackenzie." She repeated. "Can I help you?"

"I think I must have dialled the wrong extension." The voice on the other end began slowly. "I meant to speak with Commander Rabb."

"Our extensions are just a number off, it happens quite often. I can put you through to his voicemail." She offered helpfully. "He's not in today."

"No, no. This is just a courtesy call to make sure everything is in working order in his apartment."

Mac paused, unsure she'd heard correctly.

"'Working order'?" She repeated. "I thought the problem with the pipes and heating had yet to be fixed."

"Well, according to my records..." Mac could hear the rustle of pages being turned across the line. "The heat and water at the Commander's apartment were restored on Monday afternoon. Commander Rabb signed the worksheet himself. And he's paid the invoice."

"What?" Mac whispered in disbelief. But he'd told her...

"Did he mention any problems to you, Ma'am?" The voice cut into her thoughts.

"What?" Mac forced her attention back to the call. "No, no. He, uh, didn't mention anything to me..." She trailed off, still confused by Harm's behaviour. If everything was in working order at his apartment, then why...

"Ma'am?"

"Oh, right. He must have ... I didn't ..." She shook her head slightly, focused on the conversation. "Uh, he will be in on Monday, otherwise you can try his cell."

"That's quite alright." The voice said pleasantly. "I'll try again on Monday. Thank you, Ma'am. You have a good day."

"Yeah ... You too." Mac slowly put down the phone.

She stared at the receiver for a long time, lost in thought.

--

Mac's Apartment  
Friday  
1808 Local

Mac took a deep breath and unlocked her front door. Maybe Harm wasn't back yet. She hoped he wasn't. She'd left work as quickly as she could, in the hopes of beating him home. She wanted to read his note again before he came, even though she pretty much already knew it off by heart. She wanted a few moments to calm her nerves before seeing him. She'd been too restless and anxious to get much work done today, as it was. Why had he lied to her about his apartment? Is that what he wanted to tell her tonight?

Her heart was beating erratically, her hand shook as she turned the knob. She held her breath and peeked inside her apartment. Silence.

Mac pushed the door open and entered. He wasn't here. She released her breath on a wave of relief. Okay. Good. He wasn't here yet. Her heartbeat slowed to a dull thud she could feel all the way to the tips of her fingers. She could regroup before he arrived and they sat down for that talk he wanted to have. She took off her coat and hung it on the hooks by the door. As she did this, she noticed his coat was hanging on a hook. She froze. Shit. He was home. She looked down and noted his shoes lined neatly on the doormat. He was home. Her heart resumed its erratic beat. Her hands began to sweat.

He was probably in the kitchen. And he probably hadn't heard her come in otherwise he would've come to the door. She'd sneak into her bedroom and regroup there. Then she'd face him.

Mac walked into the bedroom as quietly as she could. Carefully, she shut the door behind her with a soft click. She unbuttoned her jacket and sat down on her bed. Slowly, she removed her jacket and laid it on the bed beside her. She began unbuttoning the cuffs of her shirtsleeves. She would listen to what he had to say in silence. She would sit and bear it out. He said he would be there for her and even though she didn't quite know what to make of it or how to feel about it, she figured their impending conversation would probably be as difficult as Sunday's. And she'd made it through that conversation just fine. Sort of. So she could make it through this conversation, too.

Mac looked up, startled, as the door to the bathroom opened and Harm stepped out. He caught site of her sitting on the bed, and stopped with one hand still on the doorknob. She stood up quickly, awkwardly.

"Harm." It came out as a shaky whisper. She was caught off-guard by the sudden whirl of relief and apprehension that whipped through her. Relief fuelled her need to touch him, to make sure it really was him. Apprehension at hearing whatever it was he had to tell her made her want to leave the room. She wasn't ready for him to be sensible and level-headed, and offer advice she didn't want to take because she knew it would be difficult. She didn't know if she could do it.

"Mac." He said her name softly. His hushed voice stilled her anxiety and glued her feet to the floor.

She sat back down on the bed and stared at her hands. She couldn't leave the room.

He came to the edge of the bed and sat down beside her, but left a foot of space between them. She was relieved by the distance. She was afraid to touch him. She wanted to wrap her arms around him. She clasped her hands together tightly in her lap.

They sat in silence. She waited for him to speak.

"Mac. I ..." He paused. She could feel his struggle. When he resumed speaking, he sounded hesitant. "Did you get the note I left for you?"

She nodded, and looked up at her deep burnt-orange wall.

"I meant it." The hesitancy had left his voice.

She nodded again. She swallowed the lump in her throat and turned to face him. He was studying her carefully. She let her eyes roam his face, the familiarity of his features, before settling on his eyes. She found that she believed him.

He slowly lifted his arms towards her. She recognized the invitation for what it was. She scooted towards him and he wrapped his arms around her tightly, pulled her into his warm embrace. She rested her forehead in the crook of his neck, her hands settled between them on his chest, and she let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Her eyes fell shut. He slowly rubbed his hands up and down her back in a soothing motion. Five minutes. She would take just five minutes of his comfort.

Just five minutes.

She savoured each second more than she knew she ought to. Then, she pulled back slowly and dropped her hands from his chest. He left his hands on her back, in the same place they had been in Tuesday night when he had bound her to him with his kiss. She had so much she had to say to him, but she kept her silence, just as he had kept his on Sunday.

"I'm sorry, Mac."

She looked up at him, surprised. What was he apologizing for? She didn't want to hear that from him. She opened her mouth to protest, but shut it before anything came out. It was his turn to speak, she would respect his wish and listen.

"I didn't ..." He paused again, hesitant. It lasted for only a moment before determination hardened his features. "You need to talk about what's going on with you, Mac."

She frowned at him, suddenly angry, and began to pull away. She didn't need some sanctimonious—

His arms tightened around her.

"Wait, Mac. Wait." There was a hint of desperation in his voice that annoyed her. "I can't see you do this to yourself. If you can't talk to me about it, talk to someone else."

She scowled. Was he telling her to go see a shrink? She struggled to pull free of him. She would not go see some goddamn shrink like the Admiral and goddamn Webb had made her... He was the same. Walking on eggshells around her, thinking she was crazy. _You will not lose yourself to your fight._ So he'd foist her on a shrink? That was being there for her? She should have known.

"Let go of me, dammit." She pushed at his chest and tried to twist away from his hands.

But he held her firmly and tried to catch her eye.

"Sarah." His tone was severe, determined.

She suddenly stilled in her movements and looked up at him. It was the exact same tone Uncle Matt had used on her when he had picked her up from the hospital after the car crash. After Eddie had died. She tensed. But she hadn't...

"I haven't had a drink. I'm still sober." He didn't think she'd do that, did he?

"I know, Mac." He looked slightly confused by her statement.

"And I didn't get the sleeping pills, last night. I'm not ... I'm not some out-of-control teenager. I can handle this." She searched his face for understanding, for agreement.

"I ... What? Why?" He whispered, his tone laced with disbelief, eyes widewith shock.

She frowned, unsure of what he was asking her. Why did she want the sleeping pills so badly last night that she'd stood outside McCool's office for 7 minutes and 17 seconds trying to screw up the courage to knock on the door? Or why did she walk away?

"I wanted the pills," she began slowly, "Because otherwise I would've been up all night thinking about what the doctor told me. That I have less than—" The words stuck in her throat, choked her, she had to force them out. "Less than four percent chance of conceiving a child. I didn't get the pills because all I could think about was the note you left on the coffee table."

In silence, he ran his fingers along her cheek, over her temple. She watched him as he traced the contours of her face, too rapt by his expression to pull away from his touch.

"Mac." He whispered, concern creased his brow and darkened his eyes. "There are other ways of having children."

"It's not the same, Harm." She thought of Harriet's ultra-sound pictures. Collaborating with God. She'd never get the chance to help create a miracle, to bring a life into being. "It's not the same." She repeated.

"No, it isn't." He tipped her chin up with his finger, forcing her to look at him. "But four percent is four percent more than nothing, right?"

She didn't answer him, and he sighed at her silence.

"Mac. Just think about it. You need to talk to someone, and maybe I don't or I can't understand everything you're going through. I want to. But..."

"Harm," she frowned at him. "I'm not—"

"This isn't about control, Mac. This isn't about you being crazy." He didn't let her finish defending herself. "You're human and you've been through a lot this last year. Hell, this last year and a half. And you've shut yourself out. From everyone. You barely sleep, you're not eating properly. You're like a robot at work. At home, you're either angry or sad, all the time. You can't go on like this."

She deflated at his words, buried her head in her hands. His arms encircled her, pulled her closer to him until her forehead touched his chest, and her arms rested between them. His hands resumed rubbing her back.

"I don't need to—"

"Wait." He cut her off gently. "Don't say anything, now. Just think about it." He pulled away slightly and rested his forehead on her bowed head.

"Okay? Think about it." He whispered.

His tactics were not fair. How was she supposed to refuse to do for him, what he'd done for her?

Finally, reluctantly, she nodded with her head still in her hands. Think about it. She could do that. Just think about it.

"Mac?" He prodded softly, uncertainly. "Can I ask you to think about something else, too?"

She remained still, unsure that she even wanted to hear what he wanted to ask of her. Getting her head shrunk was way more than she was ready to think about. He must have taken her silence for agreement, because he spoke again.

"I ... I know you don't trust me right now, and you don't ..." He paused and cleared his throat lightly. His voice was thick with sadness. "You don't want ..." He stopped and sighed heavily. His grasp on her tightened.

"Mac." He started anew. "I meant what I said in the note, but you need to know: What you don't want from me, what you feel for me ... It doesn't change what I want to give you, what I feel for you. I won't say it now, because you ... I won't say it now." He lowered his head so that she could feel his warm breath on her ear and his whispered words against her cheek. "But you need to know. Whether you want it or not, accept it or not, it's yours. No expectations, no demands, Mac. I'm not pushing you on this. But I'm not going anywhere and I'm not pulling away."

He rested his cheek against hers for a moment, and she let herself fall into his embrace. Just a few minutes of this ... intimacy. Just a few minutes. She remembered the words in his note. She knew she was hopelessly in love with him, to the point where just seeing him made her heart beat more easily. She didn't think she wanted to be in love with him, not to the extent that she was. She didn't think she could make him happy, be what he wanted, deserved ... No expectations. No demands. But how was that possible. It was more than anyone could offer, more than anyone deserved.

"Harm ... four percent..."

"Is a lot more than what I had." He almost sounded ... relieved to her ears. "It's so much more than what we had back in Paraguay, or when I was with the CIA or when you were with—"

"Don't say it, Harm." She warned. She was still upset about the form of her relationship with Clay. And she'd found it so hard to be around Harm at the time, to be around who he had been around her.

He hugged her tightly.

"I won't say it, Mac." He paused, before rushing the next sentence out. "And that's something else you, _we_ need to talk about. But," he spoke firmly and stilled her protests by tightening his embrace. "But four percent is more than we had a year ago."

He held her for a long moment before pulling back. His hands stayed on her back. She could feel the cold air in her bedroom seep into the space between them. She looked up at him, but didn't know what she wanted to say, or what she needed to tell him, so she remained silent.

He slid his hands over her arms.

"Just think about it." He offered her a hint of a smile.

She watched him in silence for a few moments, trying to wrap her mind around what he was saying to her.

"Come on." His tone was cheerful and his eyes suddenly brightened. "It's Friday night. When's the last time you went out for dinner? You," he pointed one long finger at her. "Need to get out."

She stared at him, startled by the sudden change in conversation. She didn't want to ... she couldn't ...

"I don't think..." She fumbled. "I mean, I'm not really up for going out."

"Nonsense, Mackenzie. It'll do us both some good. We'll hit some noisy diner, you'll order the biggest, greasiest burger on their menu, we'll play the corniest songs we can find on those table-top jukeboxes... It'll be great." He grinned.

She really didn't want to go out.

"Harm—"

"I'll even throw in a hot fudge sundae, extra hot fudge." He winked.

"Harm—"

"And rainbow sprinkles." He raised his eyebrows expectantly, and she couldn't help but laugh at his sudden enthusiasm.

"Harm!" They were just coming away from what might have been the most serious conversation she thought they'd ever had, and he was cajoling her into eating an ice cream sundae and listening to sappy jukebox music. It was as amusing as it was odd and disconcerting.

"Come on, Mac. I promise you'll have a great time." He was almost pleading with her. She studied his face carefully. She couldn't turn him down, not after the conversation they'd just had. Four percent. She'd think about that, too. She shrugged reluctantly.

"Fine." She groused. "But I won't be great company, so don't expect—"

"No expectations, remember?" He laid another charming grin on her and stood up. "I'll be in the living room while you change. Then we can head out."

He quickly turned around and left her bedroom. She watched the door click shut behind him.

_No expectations._

It wasn't a concept she could wrap her mind around. Not from anyone, especially not from any man. And from him?

She stood up and headed for her closet. She sighed. Going out did not sound particularly appealing, and especially not when she had so much thinking to do.

But how many times could she say no to him? She remembered the grin he was sporting as he left her room, and couldn't help but shake her head in disbelief. She bit her lip to keep a smile from breaking out. Okay. Fine. She could concede that going somewhere really bright and noisy might dispel the sombre mood left by the conversation they'd just had.

_Four percent._

Her smile faded.

_No expectations._

She shook her head at her empty room. She wasn't convinced, but she'd think about it.

--

Donny's Diner  
Friday  
1956 Local

"I can't believe you would pick that, of all the hundreds of songs available!" Harm stared at Mac over his tuna melt, an incredulous expression on his face.

"Hey!" She defended around a mouthful of burger. "You said we'd play, and I quote, 'the corniest songs on the jukebox.' I'm just following you're orders, Navy."

"Right." He scoffed. "And since when you do you take orders from me?"

"Well, I think Cyndi Lauper speaks to deep truths that you, as a male, just wouldn't understand." She gave him an unrepentant, pert grin.

He snorted eloquently, causing her to laugh and almost choke on her fry. She had to credit him for a fabulous idea. A greasy burger, a rowdy crowd and a jukebox. She hadn't had this much fun in a long time.

"Please, Mac. Every male can appreciate that 'girls just wanna have fun'. Thank god it's my turn now." He began flipping through the songs on the juke box. "Next you'll end up picking ABBA songs."

"Well, _Waterloo_ is one of my all-time favourites." She grinned at him.

"Really?" He looked up at her, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. "It's just the same words over and over again."

"You, Harmon I-play-the-guitar Rabb," She waved a fry at him to emphasize her point. "Are a musical elitist."

"I am not." He defended. "I'd just appreciate it if artists could at least do us listeners the courtesy of taking the time to come up with a few lyrics." He turned his attention back to the jukebox.

_Courtesy_ Mac sobered at his comment as she remembered her conversation with Harm's repairman earlier today. She watched him across the table as he scrolled through the song list on the jukebox. Her previous worries all rushed back to her, bringing a wave of anxiety that roiled her stomach. Why had he lied to her about his apartment? She stared at her burger. Suddenly, it all seemed staged to her. The diner. His easy-going attitude. A distraction...

"Harm."

"Yeah?" He answered absently as he read off song titles. "Hey, how about _Free Bird_? The guitar solo on that song ... Wow, Mac." He shook his head and sighed, his gaze distant. "I don't think I can even tell you how many hours I spent practising it, locked in my bedroom, when I was a teenager..."

"Sure." She replied through her nervousness. Bite the bullet, Mackenzie, she coached herself. Bite the damn bullet.

"Harm." She cleared her throat to rid her voice of its unsteadiness. "Did the heat and water guy manage to get in touch with you?"

His hand froze just as his finger pressed the button to select his song. He gave her a sideways glance before turning to face her, looking like a kid caught playing hooky from school.

"He called at the office today..." She trailed off as his song began playing on the jukebox. They watched each other silently as the music floated between them.

"Harm?" She didn't know how to ask. "I don't understand. He said everything was in working order since Monday."

"He told you, huh?" He smiled nervously, and leaned back into his booth.

"Yeah." She nodded. "I don't understand. This whole week ... it was, I mean ..." She trailed off, waved her hand haphazardly as though that might clarify what she was trying to say.

"I was trying to prove a point." He finally answered, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug.

"A point?" She frowned as she tried to follow his thinking.

"This last week was tough, right?" He raised an eyebrow.

She nodded.

"It was hard." He continued, his eyes not leaving hers.

She nodded again, unsure where he was going with this.

"Painful. Some of the stuff we said..." He was studying her face so carefully as he spoke. "It hurt. Really hurt."

She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded again.

"And I could have gone back to my apartment and protected myself. From you."

A tear slipped down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away. Her brain was having difficulty processing.

"I didn't." He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the shiny veneer of the table top. "I stayed. I didn't leave. You have to believe me, Mac. You have to trust in me. I am not going anywhere."

She stared at him silently. Bit her lip. Forced any further tears to keep from falling.

"And we had fun, too, didn't we?" He smiled warmly, a soft glimmer in his eye. "Redoing your room?"

She nodded, a slight smile showing through her tears.

"I got to taste food made by your hand." He took her hand in his, and squeezed it lightly. "That's reason enough never to leave."

She laughed despite herself, and wiped away another tear.

"A week is just seven days out of a lifetime." She pointed out, her voice thick with unshed tears.

He watched her carefully, intently.

"A lifetime is just seven days out of an eternity." He wrapped both his hands around hers.

Her tears fell in earnest. She sniffed and reached for a napkin, trying to hide her embarrassment. Now she was crying in diners, of all places, over triple-decker burgers and the bars of _Free Bird_.

"Hey." He slid out of his booth and came to sit next to her. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and pulled her to his side as she wiped away her tears.

"Come on, Mac." He squeezed her lightly. "Let's order you that hot fudge sundae."

"Extra hot fudge." She reminded him as she blew her nose, her voice still thick with tears. She was grateful to him for not making a big deal of her public loss of composure.

"And rainbow sprinkles." Relief strengthened his laugh as he kissed the side of her head, and pulled her even closer to him. "All the rainbow sprinkles you could ever want, Mac," he whispered into her hair.

--

Outside Mac's Building  
Friday  
2305 Local

Mac unbuckled her seatbelt as Harm pulled up outside her apartment.

"Thanks, Harm. For tonight and ... well, thanks." She finished lamely, not knowing how else to thank him without opening the emotional floodgates

He turned off the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt.

"I had a great time too, Mac." He grinned at her as he opened his car door.

"I knew you would once I started with the ABBA songs." She teased, effectively steering the conversation to safer ground. "Being a fan of theirs is nothing to be ashamed of, Harm."

She pushed her door open and waited for him before climbing out of the vehicle.

"I am not a fan." He replied over the hood of his SUV, sounding defensive.

She wanted to laugh at his petulant response, but the emotional exhaustion from the evening had taken its toll and all she could offer him was a tired smile.

They walked in companionable silence to the entrance of her building and down the hallway to the elevator.

"Don't forget your spare uniform. It's hanging in my closet." She said as they entered the elevator.

"What?" He looked at her, startled.

"What?" She frowned lightly, confused by his reaction. "You have to take your spare uniform with you when you go."

"Where am I go—" He halted suddenly. His eyes widened in alarm.

"Mac. No." The desperation in his voice made her heart stop.

"Let me st—" He stopped himself again in midsentence and paced the tiny elevator cabin. He ran a hand through his hair and stared at her. She watched the panic and determination in his eyes struggle for dominance.

She was too surprised to say anything. He wanted to _stay_? But his apartment was perfectly fine. And he'd already made his point. She stopped herself from thinking about the implications of his point - of what it meant. No demands, she repeated to herself. No expectations. Had that changed? She searched his eyes for an answer.

The elevator doors slid open and put an abrupt end to their silent staring contest. She shook herself from the daze first and stepped out of the elevator. He followed.

"It's late, Mac." He said quietly as she unlocked the front door. "I'll go back to my place tomorrow morning, if that's okay with you."

She didn't know what was okay with her. Two nights with him away had been hell. But he couldn't stay. They didn't live together. This wasn't a permanent arrangement. She had to learn – to re-learn – how to come home to an empty apartment. This was her fight, she reminded herself. – Sadiq and Paraguay and Clay and endometriosis. Her fight. Hers alone.

"It's late." She repeated. "You shouldn't drive home tonight." She couldn't say the rest, the part about him leaving tomorrow.

--


	9. Pull Back, Reach Out

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Okay. Here's the deal. Based on your reviews, I think some of you may want to throw rocks at me after reading the first bit of this part. But wait! Keep two things in mind: first, trust me in that this has to be how the story goes; second, I'll post the next part tomorrow morning. So at least wait until you read that before picking up any heavy objects.

--

**Squatter – Part 9**

**Pull Back, Reach Out**

Mac's Apartment  
Saturday  
0603 Local

Mac lay in bed and stared at her ceiling. She still couldn't sleep through the night. Dammit. She covered her face with her hands.

She tried to count how many hours and minutes of sleep she'd had last night, but her brain felt full of cotton. All she could think about was Harm sleeping on the fold-out couch just one door away. What would happen if she just crawled into his bed? Slid under his sheets? Felt his warmth beside her as he slept. Heard the light sound of his breathing right next to her. Felt the mattress move as he shifted in his sleep...

Mac rubbed her hands over her face. Stupid, Mackenzie. Stupid. Don't be stupid.

_A lifetime ... Eternity._

It was all so confusing. She still didn't know what to make of it. He wouldn't lie to her, not knowingly. But it was so easy to say something without considering the full implications. She knew he'd be miserable if his expectations weren't met, and despite what he'd said about not having expectations, she knew he had to be expecting something. On some level. That was how relationships worked. Otherwise people wouldn't hurt each other using fists and words and one-way tickets out of town.

She tried to imagine not waking up – or rather, not sleeping – with him in the next room. She sighed and looked at her bedroom door. This would be the last time she'd be not sleeping with him in the next room.

Silently, Mac stepped out of her bed and tip-toed across the room. She opened her door with infinite care to avoid making any noise that could wake him. She slipped out of her room and quietly walked to the couch.

She stopped at the foot of the fold-out couch and watched his form under the sheets. Regret settled in a heavy cloak over her limbs. If only he had felt this way about her two years ago.

"Everything okay?"

She jumped slightly, startled by the sound of his voice.

He propped himself on his elbows and eyed her with worry.

"Didn't mean to startle you. You okay?" His voice was rough with the remnants of sleep.

"Yeah." She nodded abruptly, waiting for her heartbeat to even out. She tried a smile for fit. "I'm fine."

"I couldn't sleep either." He pulled himself up to a seated position.

"Did Bud call you?" She asked suddenly, remembering Bud's invitation from yesterday.

"What?" He frowned, obviously confused by her question.

"Bud." She repeated. "He and Harriet invited us to their place on Sunday. Brunch. Catch up with the kids. We..." She cleared her throat, realizing that she couldn't speak for both of them. Hell, Harm had probably been a better godparent than her. "I. I haven't spent much time with AJ or Jimmy lately."

"Yeah." Harm nodded. "He did. I told him I'd be more than happy to. I haven't seen them in a while, either."

She wondered if he added the last part to ease her guilt, but was too relieved at the prospect of seeing him tomorrow to care. The realization that she wouldn't have to wait for Monday to feel his presence brought a genuine smile to her face. She realized he was watching her, and bit her lip to keep her relief from being too obvious.

"I guess I'd better start packing." His words chased away the smile she was trying to hide.

She nodded, swallowed the sudden lump in her throat.

"It was good to have you here, Harm." She sincerely meant it, although she hadn't ever meant to say it out loud.

"Yeah." He pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. "It was good to be here."

He watched her as she spoke, and she could tell he was debating on whether to add more. She waited for him to decide.

"Mac. I ..." He struggled with an internal battle she couldn't see, before surrendering. "Will you be alright?"

She frowned.

"What do you mean?" She wouldn't assume he was crowding her, imposing himself. But would she mind if he did? This was her fight, she reminded herself. Hers.

"What we talked about." He raised an eyebrow in reproach. "You're not sleeping properly. You don't eat nearly enough."

"Harm." She interrupted to keep him from adding anything more, and crossed her arms. "I'm fine. I'll be fine."

"And the other stuff?" He ignored the implicit warning in her tone.

"I told you I'd think about it." She couldn't keep the impatience from her voice. She shut her eyes, frustrated by the shift in her mood she couldn't control. She sighed and rubbed a hand across her forehead before opening her eyes. "I will think about it, okay?" She said in a more conciliatory tone. She tried another smile for fit.

He gave a half-hearted smile in return and nodded in resignation. "I'd better get packing then."

She didn't want him to 'get packing'.

"Harm." His name sprang forth urgently from her lips before she could prevent it. He looked up at her expectantly.

She cleared her throat. "Um, I ..." She sighed. Don't be stupid, MacKenzie. She tilted her head towards her bedroom door. "Don't forget your spare uniform." She walked around the couch, and made her way to the kitchen. "I'll get the coffee going."

--

Mac's Apartment  
Saturday  
1803 Local

Mac leaned back heavily into the couch. Twelve hours ago, she had been staring at her ceiling after not sleeping a full night, with Harm lying on a couch just one room away.

Now she was sitting on the couch he had vacated, and he was a city away.

He had left 48 minutes ago. She was not acknowledging the seconds. That would reek of desperation.

They had somehow managed to delay his leaving. He had packed. They'd eaten breakfast. He'd insisted on helping her fold the couch and launder the sheets he'd used. She'd thrown in his clothes with the sheets – it would save water and energy and money, after all. Despite her protests – he really wasn't a messy person – he'd insisted on helping her clean up her place, vacuum, dust, wipe, wash...

But there were only so many chores they could drum up.

So once the sheets had been laundered and folded, once his clothes had been packed, once her apartment was bright and spanking clean, he'd loaded his bags in his car and had driven away.

She'd be seeing him tomorrow.

Mac stared at her empty apartment. Empty except for her and her furniture and the silence that was a physical presence, pressing itself against the walls.

_I can't see you do this to yourself._

She ran her hand along the armrest of the couch.

_Y__ou barely sleep, you're not eating properly_

She looked towards her bedroom door, thoughtful.

_Y__ou're either angry or sad, all the time._

_ You can't go on like__ this._

Mac closed her eyes and sighed.

Maybe she did need to talk. To someone. It'd be difficult, she knew. She'd have to face things, say things, think about things ... She remembered the pep talk she'd given herself last Sunday.

Uncle Matt had made her face things she didn't want to, at a time when her life was really terrible, unbearable. At a time when she was drowning in her guilt and anger. Guilt and anger that she, in turn, had tried to drown in alcohol. Now...

Now. Well maybe now wasn't so different. Things were not going well. She had to face that. And deal with it. She remembered the way Harm had said her name while he'd been sitting on her bed, his hands resting on her back, the weight of memory echoing in his voice ... She had to deal with this. She couldn't hide behind isolation, couldn't use isolation as she'd used the bottle all those years ago. How long could she ignore all that wasn't going well before it bled into her, became an inextricable part of her? Before everything crashed and she'd have nothing but scratch to start from, all over again.

She opened her eyes and again looked toward her bedroom. She remembered Harm's words, his support, the patience he was struggling to keep. It wouldn't do to load this all onto him. This was her fight, she reminded herself. Her problem. Hers alone.

Mac picked her cell phone off the coffee table and scrolled her address book until she reached the number she was looking for. She stared at it for one long moment.

She could do this.

Mac dialled the number and listened to the phone ring. Once. Twice. She heard a cheery voice reply on the other end.

Mac took a fortifying breath before speaking into the phone.

"Yes, good evening. I'm calling to make an appointment with Commander McCool ... No, this won't be my first visit."

--


	10. The Space In Between

Disclaimer: Don't own'em

A/N: Here you go, as promised. Let's pretend Jimmy actually was as old as he seems in this story.

--

**Squatter – Part 10**

**The Space in Between **

Roberts' Residence  
Sunday  
1256 Local

Mac looked up from Jimmy, who was seated on her lap, to Harm as he entered the living room.

"Do Bud and Harriet need any help in the kitchen?" Mac asked Harm as he seated himself next to her on the couch.

"Nah. They're insisting we spend time with our godkids." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a quarter and showed it to Jimmy.

"Speaking of godkids, where's AJ?" Mac watched Jimmy's face light up as he caught sight of the shiny object.

"Upstairs. Something about finding the dinosaur book he wants Auntie Mac to read with him." Harm manipulated the quarter, walked it across his fingers from one end of his hand to the other and back. They both watched Jimmy's brow crease in concentration as his eyes followed the coin.

"I gave him a dinosaur model a few weeks ago. Bud said he loved it." Mac grinned.

"So our godson is going to be a palaeontologist." He gave her a sideways glance. She caught the playful glimmer in his eye, the one he wore whenever she spoke of dinosaurs with him.

Harm took the coin between his thumb and forefinger, and showed it to Jimmy.

"One can only hope," Mac sighed wistfully. "Then I could persuade him to let me tag along with him on digs."

"You could tell him you'll offer security at his dig sites. Protect him from looters and plunderers with your Marine training." Harm shook his hand briskly, and then spread his fingers wide apart. The coin was gone. Jimmy frowned before looking up at Mac.

"Wow, Jimmy!" Mac grinned at the toddler. "Uncle Harm made the coin disappear!"

Jimmy bounced excitedly in Mac's lap. He put his hands palm up and looked from one godparent to the other.

"Gone?" He asked, eyebrows raised and eyes wide.

"That's what it looks like, Jimbo." Harm assumed an exaggerated expression of thoughtfulness as he watched his godson. "Hmm, but I think maybe the coin is behind your ear."

Jimmy's hands flew to his ears. He looked at Mac, startled by Harm's suggestion and seeking confirmation.

"Do you think the coin is behind your ear?" Mac crinkled her nose and shook her head to emphasize her point. "That sounds silly!"

Jimmy laughed at Mac's expression and shook his head at Harm. "Gone!"

"It's not silly..." Harm reached his hand out towards to Jimmy's ear. He grinned at their godson. "And it's not gone ... It's magic!" He pulled his hand back, the quarter firmly pinched between his thumb and index finger.

Jimmy saw the coin and clapped his hands, laughing in delight. Harm and Mac both chuckled at his reaction.

"More!" Jimmy squealed, clapping his hands again and bouncing on Mac's lap.

Harm again walked the coin across his fingers, back and forth. Mac marvelled at how the simple act had Jimmy enraptured. She watched Harm as he manipulated the coin. His eyebrows were raised, eyes shining, the side of his mouth quirked in amusement. The pallid late November sunlight sharpened his features, deepened the colour of his eyes, glinted off his hair.

Mac suppressed the sudden current of longing that warmed her blood and weighed down her heart.

"I'll be late coming to work tomorrow morning." She turned her attention to Jimmy, to keep from looking at Harm.

His hand paused in mid-motion, the quarter caught between his thumb and index finger.

"Everything okay?" He ventured.

Jimmy waved his arms and looked up at Harm, eyes wide with curiosity, waiting for the coin to disappear. "More!" He demanded.

Mac followed Jimmy's gaze until her eyes met Harm's.

"I scheduled an appointment with Commander McCool." Mac returned her attention to Jimmy, who was once again staring at the quarter held between Harm's fingers. "I've met with her before ... after Sadiq."

"Mac..." He trailed off, and resumed his magic trick instead of finishing his thoughts. The quarter disappeared. Jimmy reached forward and grabbed Harm's hand, and then he tugged at his own ears. Harm smiled slightly as he reached behind Jimmy's ear, but Mac knew where his mind was.

"This is ... this is a good thing you're doing." He finally spoke. She sensed that he had wanted to say something else. He opened his hand to reveal the quarter. Jimmy giggled, and Harm tapped the toddler's nose lightly with his index finger.

Mac watched Jimmy frown at Harm's finger, then grab his godfather's hand and shake it.

"I need to do something ..." She kept her voice low, matching the intimacy that had wrapped itself around the moment. "I don't ... know who I am anymore."

Harm brought his free hand to her face. She felt his finger trail lightly along her jaw, coaxing her to look up at him. She did, slowly, and he caught her eye.

"I know who you are." His voice was low, hoarse. He dropped his finger from her chin and used it to tap her chest, right above her heart. "And I still see you."

She shifted uncomfortably, averted her gaze.

"Now you sound like a shrink." Her laugh sounded flat to her ears.

"You don't have to do that, Mac. Not with me." He spoke in the same serious tone.

She met his eyes again, confused by his words, wary of the meaning behind them.

"Make a joke when things gets too heavy or uncomfortable." He elaborated.

She studied him for one long moment before turning her attention to Jimmy who was squirming restlessly in her lap, thankful for the diversion children could always provide. She turned their godson to face her. Jimmy kept tugging Harm's hand, demanding the coin.

"Mine!" Jimmy gave Harm a disapproving look.

"Hey, little man." Mac smiled at Jimmy. "How about you let Uncle Harm keep that coin, while we go see if Mommy has your lunch ready?"

Jimmy's eyes lit up in recognition. He let go of Harm's hand.

"Mommy! Want mommy!" He twisted in Mac's lap and pointed to the kitchen.

"Alright then, Sweetie. Let's go see Mommy." Mac stood up, lifted Jimmy onto her hip, and headed towards the kitchen to find Harriet.

She could feel Harm's eyes on her as walked away.

"Hey, Mac." He called after her. "Check your pocket."

She turned around to look at him, frowning in confusion.

"My pocket?" She dug her free hand into her jeans pocket. Her fingers tightened around a hard, thin object. She pulled it out.

His quarter glinted in the light as she held it up between her thumb and index finger.

"Mah-dik!" Jimmy squealed in delight from his perch on her hip, clapping his hands in excitement.

She looked at Harm. He was grinning widely.

"Magic." He winked at her.

Mac shook her head in amusement, and couldn't help but laugh quietly at his smug self-satisfaction.

"Magic." She repeated, quirking an eyebrow at Jimmy as she returned the quarter to her pocket. With the quarter safely tucked away, Mac turned around to go seek out Jimmy's lunch.

After just two steps, she stopped again and turned back to face Harm, who was still seated on the couch. She cocked her head to one side and watched him thoughtfully. He caught her gaze and returned it, frowning slightly in concern.

"What?" He asked, worried.

"Thanks, Harm." She shrugged one shoulder, her eyes never leaving his. Sometimes, she thought, words weren't enough to carry the full weight of sincerity.

He smiled warmly, anticipation flickered in his eyes. "Right back at ya, MacKenzie."

She studied his face for a moment before breaking out into a genuine smile. Jimmy's insistent tugging on her arm forced her to break eye contact. She looked away, caught off guard by the intensity of their silent conversation.

"Let's get you your lunch, Little Man." She tapped Jimmy's chin lightly. Then, for the third and final time, she turned around and made her way to the kitchen.

--  
--

JAG HQ  
Monday  
1425 Local

Mac looked up from her desk as she saw Harm once again walk by her office. She caught his surreptitious glance and sighed. Why the hell didn't he just knock on her door and ask her how her session with McCool had been? She didn't know whether to be annoyed or exasperated or amused by his failed attempts at subtlety. She supposed he was trying not to push, and she should be grateful. But the conversation they'd had on Sunday over Jimmy's squeals and a magic quarter made her uncomfortable. Hell, the whole situation made her uncomfortable. Well, she amended, not the whole situation. The look they'd shared ... Mac bit back her smile. That did not make her feel uncomfortable. Not at all...

Mac shook her head to dismiss her smile. She sighed. One look from him and she felt all warm and fuzzy inside. Mac scoffed quietly. What a cliché.

Her thoughts drifted to her session with McCool.

She could admit that the session had been ... something. Difficult. Revealing. Painful. Enlightening. And just a teeny little bit cathartic. She wanted to forget it ever happened, forget some of the stuff she'd discovered about herself, some of the stuff McCool had said. Yet, at the same time, she didn't. Didn't want to forget. It was all very confusing. Next time she'd book her appointment for the afternoon or evening so that she could go home after, instead of coming in to work where her thoughts kept wandering. And one of the objects of her thoughts kept wandering by her office.

She still had his note. It was tucked away in her bedside table drawer, under letters from her Uncle Matt, birthday cards from Chloe, and drawings by AJ and Jimmy. She could still hear his words. She believed him ... yet she had a hard time trusting that it could be so ... easy. She needed time. Time to digest everything. Time to think.

Mac shook her head. Enough of that. Now wasn't the time for thinking. Not about that. She was supposed to be working.

Just as she bent her head over her file, she heard Harm's familiar footsteps outside her door. She looked up without lifting her head, and caught him just as he snuck a look in her office through the corner of his eye.

"Harm."

He halted abruptly and sidestepped into her office.

"Yeah, Mac?" She could hear his restrained anticipation.

"Just ask me, Harm."

"What?" He frowned in confusion, tried to look innocent.

"This is obviously killing you." Her lips quirked in amusement at the way he was standing in front of her desk, ready to pounce on anything she said. "Just ask."

He remained silent for a moment, and then took another step into her office. Mac swallowed her amusement, and tightened her grip on her pen. She waited.

"How was your appointment?" He raised an eyebrow and cocked his head to the side, his concern for her felt a like a physical presence in her small office. Mac tried not to let it overwhelm her.

"Difficult." She volunteered. It was the only answer her mind had been able to conjure up during the entire drive to the office. It was all she was willing to share at this point, when she still had so much to figure out.

He sobered at her response.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He ventured.

"Not particularly." She hoped he would understand. She watched him as he watched her.

He looked confused and upset, and she felt an obligation to defend herself. To say something. To clarify.

"It's not that I don't want to talk to _you_." She tried to explain, knowing he was probably the only person she would – could – ever talk to about it.

"But I— it's all still a jumble in my head. I need to figure it out, before ..." She trailed off as his confusion and hurt gave way to a resigned impatience. She felt his slowly simmering frustration before he smothered it with a half smile.

"Okay. That's fine." His words were clipped, she could feel his retreat. "I have to get back to work."

He waited for her nod before turning on his heel to exit her office.

She watched him walk away. No expectations. No demands. She knew it wasn't possible. She knew it. No one had the power to offer it. No one had the right to ask such a thing.

She sure as hell hadn't asked for it.

She wasn't asking for it.

--

JAG HQ  
Monday  
1658 Local

A light knocking forced Mac to surface from her paperwork. She looked up to see Harm standing in the entrance to her office, his knuckles resting on the doorjamb.

"Am I disturbing you?" His tone was solicitous. It put her on her guard.

"No," She shook her head.

"Can I come in?" He asked carefully.

"Of course." She frowned at the absurdity of the question. Did he really think she wouldn't let him into her office?

He entered and took a seat in front of her desk.

"So..." He trailed off, shifted slightly in his chair.

She waited. Irritation prickled her skin, made her fingers itch.

"Umm..." He trailed off again, let his eyes roam her desk.

She tightened her grip on her pen, bit the inside of her cheek. Frustration began its slow, steady creep up her spine.

"I didn't mean to be so ..." He trailed off, hesitated. "...Earlier."

In an instant, the frustration leaked out of her spine, irritation fled. She almost smiled at his quasi-apology – it was so typically him. She sighed. Damn mood swings. She had to get a better hold of herself.

He must have noticed the change in her demeanour, because he smiled slightly and settled more comfortably in his chair.

"It's alright, Harm. I don't expect you to—"

"That's just it, Mac." He cut her off. The teasing note in his voice could not conceal his sincerity. "You have to start expecting more."

She frowned at his words, studied his face. Before she could begin to process his meaning, he spoke again.

"Hey, the Air and Space Museum has an exhibition on cockpits – opened this weekend. I was going to go take a look at it after work. You want to come with?"

She gave him an incredulous stare. Cockpits?

"Are you serious?"

He laughed at her, his eyes bright with amusement.

"Yes, I'm serious. Have you ever known me to kid around about cockpits?"

_Cockpits?_ She was at a loss.

"Come on, Mac. It'll be fun. We had fun at the diner." He cajoled.

She nodded in acknowledgment. That they did.

"No serious conversations, I promise." He bargained.

She wasn't sure if she believed him on that point. It seemed all they were doing lately was having serious conversations.

"I figured it'd only be fair if we did Air and Space tonight." He continued. "That way, we can take AJ to the Museum of Natural History this weekend."

She marvelled at the shift in his behaviour, from 1425 to 1704.

"He has to become a palaeontologist, Mac, before he can let you tag along on digs." He tried again. "Consider it an investment in his future."

Cockpits could be interesting, she supposed. She didn't want to go home to an empty apartment when her conversation with McCool was still relentlessly jabbing into her brain. And she'd hold him to his word on the 'no serious conversations' promise. Hell, she might get another sundae if she played her cards right. She brightened at the thought.

"Alright. Why not." She agreed.

"Just come, Mac. I promise we don't have to talk about anything." He continued presenting his case. "Just an evening out, no—" He stopped suddenly as her answer registered, and straightened in his chair. "Wait. 'Alright'?" He raised an eyebrow, seeking confirmation. "'Alright' as in you'll come?"

"Yeah." She lifted her shoulder in a half shrug. He'd be too distracted by his planes anyways, to worry about her. Cockpits. Go figure. She'd never understand flyboys.

"Alright." He gave a swift nod, sat forward on the edge of his chair. "I'll pick you up in ..." he looked down at his watch. "An hour and a half." He looked up at her.

"I can meet you there, Harm." She offered.

"Humour me, Mac?" He gave her a disarming smile and waited for her reply. Oddly, she didn't feel guilty at the thought of refusing his request. Nor anxious at the thought of accepting it.

"Fine." She relented. "I'll be waiting outside my building at 1839."

"Great. 1839." He grinned as he stood up. "See you then."

She watched him cross the bullpen to his office before turning her attention to clearing her desk. 1839 ... Knowing Harm, she should probably head out of her apartment at 1855. She smiled at the thought, her gaze drifting out her open office door, to where Harm had stood a moment ago.

_Four percent._

_No expectations._

She was thinking about it.

--  
--

Outside the Robert's Residence  
Saturday  
1832 Local

"That was fun." Mac turned to Harm, who was busy steering the car out of the driveway.

"It was." He nodded as he turned his SUV onto the street. "Exhausting, too. That kid's tireless."

"He was just excited." She couldn't help her smug grin. "Our godson's going to be a palaeontologist."

"He's in kindergarten, Mac." He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, and she could see the telltale glint of mischief. "There's time still. What was it AJ said? 'The dinosaur's teeth are bigger than my head'. Very scientific."

She rolled her eyes at his attempt to needle her.

"Don't be a spoilsport, Navy. They start young." Her smug grin could not be suppressed. "I bet you he's going to want to sleep in that palaeontologist costume we got him from the gift shop."

"Oh, no you don't." He warned. "I am not getting caught in Harriet's wrath. That costume was all you."

"Chicken." She teased amiably.

"Speaking of which: You want to grab a bite?" His eyes were fixed intently on the road.

Mac shrugged lightly. "Sure. Ho's Noodle House?"

"You don't mind?" He glanced at her, surprised.

"Of course not. You sat through hot dogs for lunch." She patted his knee good-naturedly. "You deserve a reward."

"You're all kindness." He chuckled.

They settled into a comfortable silence as they passed through residential neighbourhoods and toward the highway.

"You had an appointment with McCool Thursday afternoon, right?" His tone was casual, but the question was enough to dispel the easy mood in the car.

She shifted slightly in her seat, and kept her eyes on the cinderblocks that rushed by them on the side of the highway.

"Yeah." She tightly gripped the handle on the side door. Truthfully, she had been expecting him to ask her about the session at some point on Friday.

"How was it?" He asked carefully.

"Difficult." She shrugged.

Silence once again settled between them.

"You know," Harm started, two minutes and eight seconds later. "You were right."

"How's that?" She turned to look at him.

"Kids do start young." His tone was light, and she knew he was setting up a story, building towards a punch line. She remembered his promise of no serious conversations.

She settled comfortably in her seat, facing him, and waited for him to continue.

"The first time I attempted to fly, I thought clothes would weigh me down."

She looked at him askance, her lip twitching in amusement. This was going to be good.

"So I stripped, held a kite in each of my hands, and ran." He kept a straight face through his narrative.

She laughed, incredulous. "Ran? Where did you run?"

"Down the street, of course." He said as if it were the most obvious answer.

"How old were you?" She was still chuckling.

"Four." His eyes were bright, and she could see him struggling to keep his poker face.

"Your first solo flight at four." She studied him, amused. "Naked!"

"It ended before takeoff." He broke into a wide grin, and glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

"Really? Why? I think your technique was foolproof." She joked.

"Hey," he shrugged lightly, "I thought so too. But Julie Day's brand new tricycle – pink, with tassels and," he glanced at her, shaking a finger to underscore the importance of the next part, "A bell – had different ideas."

Mac bit her lip to keep from laughing. "Poor Julie."

He turned his head to face her, wearing an expression of mock offense. "Poor Julie, my foot! I skinned two knees _and_ my chin!"

"Aw, poor baby." She couldn't help but laugh at the mental picture his story conjured.

"Damn straight." Suddenly, his expression turned cocky. He grinned. "Besides, Julie Day got her bell rung. By me. I was a stud even at four, you know."

"I don't doubt it, Harm." She shook her head at him, grinning with amusement. "I don't doubt it."

--  
--

JAG HQ  
Friday  
1008 Local

Mac entered the break room in search of coffee and – if she was lucky – a donut. She smiled in greeting at Harm, who was leaning against the counter stirring his coffee.

"Hey, Harm."

"Mac." He nodded in acknowledgement, and offered her a warm smile. "I heard the judge accepted your recommendation for sentencing on the Carver case. Good work, Marine."

She grinned at him over her shoulder as she poured herself some coffee. "Thanks."

She added milk and sugar to her cup in silence, waiting for his next question.

"How was last night's session with McCool?" His tone was cautious.

"Okay." She shrugged as she turned to face him. She leaned back against the counter and took a sip of her coffee.

He straightened, sounded surprised. "Really?"

"Yeah." She nodded as she pushed herself off the counter. She crossed the break room and opened the box of donuts, which was sitting on the counter next to Harm. He was standing still, watching her. He seemed to be wrestling between disbelief and excitement. "What is it, Harm?" She asked, worried by his silence.

"This the first time you didn't say the session was 'difficult'." His grin slid into place, slipped off, slid back. She could see how pleased he was, how he was trying to contain it. She could also see his obvious pride for her in his eyes.

She paused, one hand in the donut box, the other holding her cup of coffee. Her fourth session with McCool. She hadn't even really thought about her answer. Or that it would make him so happy. She contemplated his reaction for a moment. He meant so much to her...

"Harm?"

"Yeah?" His grin was firmly in place.

"I..." She cleared her throat, picked up a double chocolate donut with sprinkles, and turned to face him. "I was going to try out another recipe from my grandmother's notebook tonight." She studied the counter behind him. "I still owe you for breakfast."

He brightened. "We did have a deal."

She nodded.

"I'll come straight from work." He rushed the words out. "I should be done here at about 1700."

"Harm," she looked at him, slightly alarmed. "Dinner won't be ready that quick. I'll be leaving here around then, too."

"I'll help you out in the kitchen." He offered readily.

"But that defeats the purpose: _I'm_ supposed to be making _you_ dinner." She saw his grin begin to slip, and quickly recanted. "Alright. Fine. Please come straight from here." She requested sincerely, hoping it would placate him.

His grin once again slipped back, to her relief.

"Count on it, MacKenzie."

His cheery reply followed her out of the break room and into the bullpen.

--

Mac's Apartment  
Friday  
1838

Mac was buttoning her sweater when she heard Harm's knock on the door. She hurried to answer the door, but not before making sure all her buttons were done up.

"Harm!" She greeted, and held the door open for him to enter her apartment. "Good timing. I was just about to start."

"Hey, Mac." He handed her his travel bag to hold while he removed his coat. "I have my civvies in there. I'll just change."

She nodded and glanced down at the bag she was holding. It was the same black travel bag he'd kept his civvies in while he'd been staying at her place ... Mac frowned.

"Harm?"

"Yeah?" He answered absently as he pulled off his boots.

"Did you come straight from work?"

"Yeah, like I said I would." He lined his boots against the wall, next to hers.

She stared down at the bag. "The bag ... Is everything okay?"

He stood up at looked at her, confused by the question.

"I mean," she explained, "This was the same bag you used when you stayed here..." She trailed off when he fidgeted, surprised by his sudden discomfort.

She couldn't understand his reaction. Unless—

"You didn't unpack your bag?" She stared at him, afraid she was right.

He looked away, silent, before focusing on her once again. Slowly, he shook his head.

"Harm." She didn't know what to say.

"Mac. This ..." He searched her eyes, his expression intent. "This doesn't mean ... I'm not ... I just couldn't unpack." He was struggling to explain. "So I left it in the car. It's nothing ..."

She studied him carefully for a moment. She had no idea. She had absolutely no idea. God. She needed to come out of this shell of hers. He deserved better.

She looked at the floor for one moment, mustering her resolve, before setting the bag down and stepping up to him. Cautiously, she put her hands on his waist, and then slipped them around his back. Slowly, she leaned into his chest and hugged him tightly. She rubbed her hands up and down his back, in a soothing motion.

He wrapped his arms around her, fell into her embrace. She waited for him to relax, felt the strain slowly trickle out of his body until he sighed, reassured.

She pulled back so she could see him. The expression in his eyes had her rapt. Deliberately, she stood on her toes, and placed a lingering kiss on his cheek – just a touch of her lips to the side of his face.

"I didn't realize." She rested her forehead on his cheek. "I see now." She whispered, then set her feet flat on the ground and looked up at him.

He watched her, cautious, hesitant.

Something inside of her loosened. She grinned. "Let's get dinner ready. My Mamani – grandmother," she clarified when she saw the look of confusion on his face. "Always said: Never delay in preparing a meal."

Reluctantly, he let go of her and picked up his bag. "Why's that?"

Mac shrugged. "Not sure. But she always followed up with something about how my grandfather acted like a bear with a sore head when he was hungry."

Harm threw her an impertinent grin. "So, you have a lot in common with your grandfather, huh?"

She laughed in response, watching him as he walked towards her bedroom. "Careful, Navy, or I won't share my grandmother's Halva recipe with you."

Mac made her way to the kitchen, smiling, feeling relieved and pleased and other things that were unfamiliar from lack of use. She began preparing the ingredients for dinner, and reacquainted herself with what she'd thought was long lost.

"So, what's for dinner?"

She looked up at Harm as he entered the kitchen.

"Ash-e Anar. Or pomegranate soup. Very hearty. It has some lean meat in it, though, I hope that's okay." She looked at him, concerned.

"Perfect." He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

"I got the meat you like, but we can make it vegetarian, Harm. Seriously."

"Meat's fine, Mac. I promise." He reassured her.

"Great." She smiled, relieved. She'd never made a vegetarian version of this soup before. Who knew how it would've turned out. "Let's start."

"Sounds good." He rolled up his sleeves and joined her by the kitchen table.

He read through the recipe Mac had propped on the table. "Your grandmother was quite the cook."

"She was. You know, she wrote all her recipes in English and Farsi." Mac replied conversationally. "She gave the English copies to my mom, kept the Farsi one's for herself." She looked at him once he finished reading the recipe. "You want to mince the garlic? I'll boil the peas. Then we can work on the meatballs."

"Sure." He turned to the chopping board, and began peeling the garlic cloves. "Hey, what were you saying about Halva earlier?"

"It's a dessert. I think you'd like it." She poured the peas into a pot on the stove.

"I don't have much of a sweet tooth, Mac." He replied as he chopped the garlic.

"Harm, my grandmother's Halva is famous for unearthing previously undiscovered sweet teeth." She set the timer for the peas, and came to stand across the table from him.

He looked up at her, eyebrow raised in challenge.

"We'll see." She replied primly.

He shook his head, amused, and resumed chopping.

"You know, my grandmother single-handedly raised my mom and Uncle Matt once my granddad died – they were just kids at the time. Not an easy feat, back then." Mac unwrapped the meat, put it into a large bowl and began adding seasoning.

"Uncle Matt always says that he owes who he is to his mother and the Marines. In that order."

"And your mom?" She saw his knife still, knew that he was looking at her.

She tensed, her attention focused on mixing the meat. "Don't know. My mom married really young. Mamani passed when I was thirteen. I think that might have had something to do with mom leaving just under two years later."

"So, you were fluent in Farsi at thirteen?" His knife resumed its chopping. The tension left her shoulders.

"Yup." She grinned at the memory of Farsi lessons with her grandmother.

"That's impressive, Mac."

"Not really." Her smile faded, she mixed the meat with slightly more strength that necessary. "I spent a lot of time with her. It beat the alternative of going home."

They worked in silence for a few seconds.

"Did your grandmother know about ..." he trailed off. She could feel his eyes on her. He had chopped the garlic into a pulp.

"... my father's alcoholism? The abuse?" She finished his sentence without looking at him. She shrugged, tried to soften her words. "She suspected, I think. She had to." Mac remembered how warm and loving and solicitous her grandmother had been with her. She wondered if a part of it was to allay her worry over not being sure about what was happening in her daughter's house. "But you can't help someone who's not ready to help herself."

She began rolling the meatballs and setting them on a tray. Harm walked around the table to stand beside her, and joined her in her task.

"No." He said quietly. "You can't."

They looked at each other for a moment, considering their words amid bubbling pots and the beginnings of their dinner, before turning their attention back to the task at hand.

--


	11. Stay

Disclaimer: Don't own'em.

A/N: This is it. Last part. All done. Thanks for reading. Thanks for the comments.

--

**Squatter – Part 11**

**Stay**

_Two__ week__s later_

JAG HQ  
Christmas Eve  
1308 Local

Mac crossed the bullpen, heading towards Harm's office. She wondered at how, after just a few weeks, going to his office had slowly climbed up her list of favourite moments in the day. A little casual conversation, a little teasing; it invariably netted her a smile. Since his return to JAG, that had been anything but the case. But since she'd started seeing McCool, since Harm had been doggedly insistent on not letting her retreat behind her shield of isolation, since he'd been trying his best not to get upset or angry or impatient at how difficult all of this was ... since then she'd started enjoying visits to his office more and more. She enjoyed just seeing him.

He'd made his offer to talk a standing one – sometimes hinting and prodding – but she'd invariably deflected his overtures, and he'd invariably, though reluctantly, held back. They definitely did talk more, about significant things. But never about the contents of her sessions.

She'd been telling herself she couldn't talk with him, just yet. Not with all the emotional turmoil the sessions with McCool invariably dredged up. Not when she was still trying to get a hold of herself. But, increasingly, she felt an actual need to talk to him. Hear his thoughts, his input. She _would_ talk to him. Not yet. But, maybe today. Hopefully tonight...

She knew they were still just out of phase with what they once had, who they once used to be. She also knew that was mostly her fault – she was keeping a distance between them. She was still wary. All the talking with McCool had helped, Harm's presence had helped. But she was still wary. She was trying to fight her wariness, trying to beat it into submission. She was trying hard. Hence this visit to Harm's office. Try as she might, though, she couldn't suppress the feeling that she didn't deserve half of what he was doing for her. She didn't deserve the way he looked at her.

"Are you sure?"

His voice snapped her from her thoughts. She'd made it to Harm's office without even realizing it. Automarine.

He had his back to her, the phone pressed to his ear. He was casually leaning back into his chair, sounding amused. It suited him.

"Yeah, of course I am." His tone was light, upbeat. "This is great news. Do you have the dates?"

She entered his office and took a seat, waiting for him to finish. He turned around at the sound of her footsteps and his demeanour brightened. He sat a little straighter in his chair and grinned at her.

Mac returned a dimmed version of his smile. Most of his attention was on the phone call, so she didn't think he noticed her reserve.

"Yes," he rolled his eyes and laughed. "I know how email works."

He nodded into the phone, and Mac took the opportunity to study him. They were definitely in a much better place than they had been a few weeks ago. She knew he was still waiting for more. And, lately, that didn't make her too nervous. Well, it did kind of make her nervous. After all, there was so much potential for things to go wrong.

"You, too. Bye." His soft voice drifted into her thoughts, easing some of her worry.

Weeks of session with McCool had also helped in that regard, had brought the realization that it was normal to have some doubts. To have some fears. He was, after all, so important to her. And she needed to make sure he knew that, needed to tell him just how much he meant to her. To thank him. She had to loosen the tight hold she maintained on her reservations, her insecurities, and she had to trust him. She had to show him her trust.

"Hey, Mac." He looked at her and smiled as he hung up the phone.

She smoothed her skirt with her hands. Deep breath. Time to let go.

"Hi." She tried to return his smile. It was half-hearted. God, she was nervous about this.

He didn't seem to notice, or if he did he didn't comment. Instead he tilted his head lightly to indicate the phone.

"That was Mattie. She'll have a few days early in the new year to come visit." He was grinning widely, ear to ear.

Mac smiled genuinely at his good humour. "That's great, Harm."

"Yeah, it is." He nodded happily as he watched her from across the desk.

"Is she still taking those flying lessons?" She knew Mattie was still taking the lessons; she also knew how much he loved talking about her taking them.

"Damn straight." He replied, practically glowing with fatherly pride.

Mac laughed. "Hey, did you tell her about the first time you flew solo?" She asked, unable to keep the teasing note from her question.

"Hell no, Mac!" He exclaimed, alarmed. He sat upright in his chair and tried to fix her with a stern look, all the while reddening with embarrassment. "And you won't either."

"I won't?" She tapped her finger against her chin, thoroughly enjoying his discomfiture. "I think she'd appreciate learning from the best. We both agreed your technique was flawless." She added, her grin betraying her attempt at innocence.

"Hey, do you think Chloe would be up for dinner when she comes?" He asked quickly. "It's at around the same time, and I think they might get along well."

She raised an eyebrow, recognizing his attempt to change the subject. He grinned at her expression, and she decided his smile was nice enough to merit him a furlough from the teasing.

"I can ask her." Mac shrugged. "I don't think it'll be a problem."

"Did she get that care package you sent her?" He leaned back into his chair, settling in for a chat.

"Yeah." Mac nodded, grinning widely. She couldn't hide her pride, nor did she find that she wanted to. "She thinks I should quit the Corps and open up shop with my grandmother's Halva recipe."

"I'd be your most loyal customer, Marine." His eyes sparkled with humour.

Mac laughed in delight. "I told you how incredible my Mamani was, but if I'd known she had the power to turn you, of all people, on to desserts, I would've taken better notes during her lessons."

They shared a laugh.

"That recipe book is a treasure trove, Mac. I still think Faisinjan is my favourite." He paused, straightened slightly in his chair. Concealed just behind his good humour, she could see the steady look of anticipation that never left his eyes when he looked at her. "It was the first dish of hers, of yours, that I tasted."

She had been ignoring that unwavering glimmer of anticipation these past few weeks.

Her smile faded, her expression turned serious.

_Not yet … Maybe today … Hopefully tonight._

He was watching her carefully. Waiting.

_Jump in. Let go._

"Harm, I need to …" Mac hesitated, looked at her hands in her lap, searched for the right words. This was not the fourth grade. This was Harm. "What I mean is, are you free to, ah … I mean, I know it's Christmas Eve and you—"

"Of course I'm free, Mac." He cut her off quickly, a slight smile lifting the corner of his lips. "We'd already planned to meet to exchange gifts, remember?"

Mac clasped her hands together tightly and looked Harm in the eye.

"I mean to talk. I need to … I'd like to talk with you. About … things. It can be anytime. When you can."

She pressed her hands together even more tightly and swallowed her exasperation at her verbal fumbling. Who knew it could be so hard to say just a handful of words? Her tongue felt like it had just run the Ironman. At least he understood her.

His body tensed, his eyes became alert as her meaning registered. She could see him try to hide just how much her request affected him.

"Tonight?" The barely restrained anticipation in his voice was evident.

"I have an interview to conduct, this afternoon. Quantico." She watched him carefully, hoping he wouldn't think she was evading. "I don't know what time..."

"Not a problem, Mac." He jumped in, this time not even bothering to restrain the hope. "I'll make dinner, and we can eat whenever you make it back."

"Are you sure? It is Christmas Eve..."

"Yes." His voice was firm. "And," he grinned. "I have a spare key to your place..."

She returned a slightly dimmed version of his smile. Relieved that he was coming, worried that the conversation they were going to have might not go well, terrified that it would.

It's okay to have doubts, she reminded herself.

"You don't need me to tell you to make yourself at home." She repeated the same phrase she'd used a few weeks ago.

His grin widened into a full-wattage smile. She couldn't help but admire it for a few short moments.

"I'll see you, tonight, then." She turned to leave his office.

"Tonight," he repeated, his smile not fading an inch.

--

Bethesda Naval Hospital  
Christmas Eve  
2149 Local

Mac leaned back into the hospital bed. Her entire body was one gigantic, pounding ache. She closed her eyes and sighed. She was sure even her eyelashes hurt. And her car ... her beautiful, beautiful car. She couldn't complain, though. She was alive. It was apparently a miracle, given the extent of the damage to her car. To her beautiful, beautiful car.

She heard the rapid pounding of feet against the linoleum floor in the hallway, and she hoped everything was okay. Christmas Eve seemed a terrible time for tragedy. She rolled her eyes at the thought, scoffing. As opposed to any other day of the year?

The rapid footsteps approached her room and she looked towards the entrance. To her shock, Harm rushed in through the door, wearing his civvies and a look of panic that made the blood pound in her ears and her headache increase tenfold.

He stopped the moment he caught sight of her on the bed and stood, tense, by the entrance, watching her. He looked like he was barely containing himself, and she couldn't help but admire his restraint. His eyes never left hers as he stepped forward slowly, each step hesitant and cautious, until he reached her bedside. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder, trailed it down her arm. He entwined his fingers with hers. She watched as the tension left his body. His shoulders slumped and he bowed his head.

"Mac." He breathed, lifting his head to look at her. "Mac. Are you..." With his free hand, he hesitantly fingered a strand of hair from where it rested on her shoulder, and watched in rapt wonder as it glinted in the light. She realized that it was probably the only part of her that wasn't hurting.

"You gave me quite a scare, Marine." He smiled weakly as he tucked her hair behind her ear. He pulled the chair from the wall closer to the bed and sat down, his hand never leaving hers. She tried not to cringe in pain as his movements lightly jolted her.

She was so glad to see him, she didn't care to ask how he found her, didn't care how he knew about what had happened. A miracle, the doctor had said. A miracle. She could see the concern crinkle his brow, worry line his eyes, weariness darken the edges of his irises. Beneath it all, she could see the features she had so grown accustomed to, come to love. God, just seeing him, his face, his eyes...

"I've been pushing you away." She squeezed his hand as best she could. Even the cartilage in her knuckles hurt.

"You had stuff to figure out. I understand." He offered her a weak half-grin.

She shook her head. "I don't think you do."

He watched her, silent.

"Then help me understand." He leaned forward, rested his elbow on his knee, his hand still holding hers, and waited. Intently. Patiently.

She studied him for long moment, then let her gaze drift to their clasped hands. "I was afraid," she began quietly, "that if I talked to you about it and figured it out, then it wouldn't be me. It wouldn't have been me getting over all the crap of the past year and a half. And then when ... if you ... if it didn't work out, I'd be back at square one."

"Mac, I told you: I'm not—"

"I know, Harm." She bit back her frustration. "You told me. But I still have a hard time believing it. It's not anything I've ever had any experience with. And after the last year ... I didn't know. I couldn't be sure. I mean, who can guarantee that kind of thing?" She leaned back into the bed, shifted to try and somehow quell the aching in her body.

"Life has no guarantees, Mac."

"I know, Harm. God, do I know. But I just, after the last year and a half, I just couldn't do it anymore." She paused, stared at the hospital bracelet around her wrist, and at how his fingers seemed so much larger when they held hers. Now was as good a place and time as any to have the conversation that had been lurking in wait each and every time they talked.

Let go.

"You know, McCool agrees with you." She watched his fingers tense slightly around hers. "She says that I'm choosing to be alone. She thinks it's what I do, push everyone away. Especially you. Because then I can control everything, make my own guarantees. She thinks it's SOP with me."

"What do you think?" He prodded.

Mac shrugged, and lifted her free hand to their clasped ones. Delicately, she traced the contours of his fingers as they held hers.

"She's seeing me after the shittiest year and a half of my life." Her skin was also darker than his. Even in the harsh, impersonal hospital room lighting, her skin seemed golden next to his whiter skin. She remembered the conversation they'd had weeks ago about what color suited her. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her.

"So you don't agree with her?"

She looked up, pulled from her thoughts by his question.

"I don't think I pushed you away all the time." She didn't like how defensive that came out sounding. Mac sighed. "She thinks that's what I was doing after Mic left. When I went TAD."

"Was it?" They stared at each other. He was searching for something in her eyes, and she didn't know what it was. She looked away, suddenly feeling restless, and waved her hand aimlessly over her shoulder, ignoring the dull pain that pulsed from her arm through her entire body.

"I don't know." She hesitated, gave it some more thought. She expelled her frustration on a quick breath. "Back then, no. At least, I didn't think so. I wasn't pushing you away. I was trying to find myself."

"And now?" She could feel him hold his breath, waiting for her answer.

"Trying to find myself again." She caught his eye for a moment, before looking away. A sardonic laugh slipped free of her grasp. "I get lost quite a bit, don't I?"

"You're not alone." His fingers tightened around hers. "You don't have to do this on your own to prove yourself. You don't." His sincerity cut through her self-deprecation.

"I'm starting to figure that out." She said honestly, and forced herself to look at him. "Thanks to you and ... to therapy." She tried not to let her embarrassment show. It still rankled her somewhat that she couldn't deal with this on her own. Intellectually, she knew it shouldn't. But it still did.

"You remember that night," He raised an eyebrow in question, he sounded uncertain. "I told you that I wouldn't say it then..."

She frowned, confused by the direction in which he was steering their conversation. What night? Wouldn't say what? As soon as the question formed in her mind, the feel of him sitting next to her, on her bed, of being wrapped in his arms, her forehead resting on his chest, took hold of her with blinding clarity. She could smell the new furniture and freshly painted walls in her bedroom. She could hear the words he whispered in her ear, could feel them flit across her cheek.

"Can I say it now?" He was hesitant.

Anticipation settled over her skin like thousands of tiny bubbles, popping and fizzing and tingling. She nodded, her eyes never leaving his.

"No expectations, no demands. I just, I can't hold it inside anymore, Mac."

Her heart thudded in her chest; she could feel each beat against her ribs. Her palms began to sweat. She absently noted that it was a different kind of palm sweating. Not borne of anxiety, but of sweet expectation. And the flutter in her tummy was nothing like the gut-wrenching nervousness she used to feel just over a month ago.

She watched his chest rise and fall as he took a deep breath. She watched his eyes darken to a sharp, mesmerizing blue, she saw hope and contentment flicker in his gaze. And he hadn't even told her yet, hadn't said it. She wondered at what he felt for her that a simple nod from her made him suddenly seem years younger.

He captured her eyes with his, and she wished she could feel his words against her skin, smell them, touch them. Hearing suddenly seemed a wholly inadequate sense.

"I love you, Mac." His words floated through the space between them and blanketed her heart, soothing over all the cuts and scrapes and breaks and tears the years had inflicted. She could actually feel his words. And she trusted the feeling, she let it flow through her, she swam in it.

"I think, in some form or another, I always have." He took her hand in both of his. "What I feel for you, it's ... I don't even think words could do it justice, Mac. I ... I don't have the words to do it justice."

She stared at him, feeling awed and other things she couldn't name because of the steady ache that was throbbing through her entire body, demanding too much of her. And yet, despite the ache, despite the grogginess from the meds, she felt more content than she thought she ever had before. More complete. More herself.

"Harm..."

"You don't have to say anything." He rushed the words out on an anxious breath, the intensity in his eyes not wavering. "Not now. Think about it."

She shook her head slowly.

"I don't need to think about it." And she didn't. She could feel it.

He raised his eyebrows in question, his voice barely a whisper. "Trust me?"

He was looking at her so intently, with such hope.

"More than I've ever let myself before." Her answer was heartfelt. In these past few weeks, she felt like the dark bands that had wrapped themselves around her, that had obscured everything she saw or touched had suddenly loosened their hold. She knew Harm, with his persistence and his caring, was the reason why everything seemed brighter, sharper. He was the reason why the world had suddenly fallen back into focus.

It was an epiphany. She had tried so hard to extricate herself from him, to pull away so that he could be happy and she wouldn't get hurt. And all along, the entire time, they had been irretrievably tangled together. She was his happiness, and he was her balm. Hell, she thought that maybe their very fates were intertwined.

He carefully tucked her hair behind her ear, trailed his finger over the shell of her ear, down her neck. All she could feel in that moment was the gentle trail left by his touch. His eyes held hers, showing her all he couldn't put into words.

He closed the distance between them and pressed his lips to hers in a soft, lingering kiss. She sighed at the contact. He pulled back slightly before leaning in again, gingerly running his fingers through her hair. The second kiss was slow and deliberate and held nothing of the desperation of that kiss by her stove. She leaned closer into him, parted her lips to deepen the kiss. The moment he responded, she felt sharp pangs of pain zing through her swollen face. She pulled back abruptly and shut her eyes, waiting for the stinging to subside.

When she opened her eyes, he was watching her with an odd mixture of concern and remorse.

She couldn't help but smile at his reaction, but that just served to stretch her tender skin. She sucked in a quick breath at the renewed jolt of pain.

His concern deepened, but she saw a slight smile tease the corner of his lips.

"Airbag." She offered by way of explanation once the pain subsided.

He took her hand in both of his and gave her a wicked grin. "I was trying to be good."

She laughed, or attempted to without moving her facial muscles too much. "We may have to settle for being gentle for the next little while, Sailor."

They exchanged an affectionate look, the shared memory lingering on its edges.

"This doesn't solve everything ..." She began hesitantly, hating to have to show him any sign of weakness. A part of her knew it was unreasonable after all he'd done, all he'd been for her ... but his opinion had always mattered so much. "I mean, I think I still need to see McCool."

He nodded slowly, looking relieved and pleased. "That's good, Mac."

She raised an eyebrow, surprised by his reaction. She searched his eyes, and all she could see was sincerity.

"I would never think less of you, Mac." His hushed words slowly, painstakingly crumbled the last of her defences. "I could never see you for less than you are."

She felt the tears well up in her eyes, and blinked them away.

"If you keep on being so sweet and understanding with me, you'll just make me cry."

He grinned. "Hopefully soon, it won't make you cry." He trailed his fingers through her hair.

"I think we're already on our way." She grinned in return as she felt the steady simmer of hope. The pain again lanced across her face. She closed her eyes and sighed tiredly. It was ironic. She actually had reason to smile now, and yet every time she did, the stinging pain felt like a slap.

"Hurts?" He asked sympathetically.

She shook her head, tried to smile without stretching her facial skin. Bruises on her face and entire body she could handle. The rest were already healing. Happiness settled itself by her side.

"Would you ..." She tugged his hand, and then looked away feeling oddly timid. She rolled her eyes, exasperated at her own behaviour. For god's sake. She was working on believing that being vulnerable didn't mean being weak, at least not with him. She was working on trusting him. Hell, she did trust him. She fixed her eyes firmly on his. "Would you stay?"

As soon as the words left her lips, he stood up from his chair and sat next to her on the bed. He pulled one leg up and delicately wrapped an arm around her shoulder. They both knew what she was asking him.

"Forever, if you'll let me." He kissed her temple and rested his cheek against the top of her head. "And even if you don't."

She took his hand in hers, leaned into his larger frame. She released a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. He held her close as she mulled over his words.

"Harm?" Her tone was tentative.

"Hmm?" She could feel his breath in her hair.

She turned as much as she could in his embrace, to face him. Her eyes met his.

"I do, too. Love you. I don't have the words to do it justice, either." She had to pause at the unabashed happiness that transformed his face. She brought a hand up, rested it against his cheek. "But I'm trying to make some up."

His smile lit the room.

"I don't even own a dictionary, Mac." He placed a lingering kiss on her forehead. She laughed softly at his reply, sighed with contentment at his gesture.

He settled back against the bed, carefully pulling her with him. She tucked herself into his side, her head resting against his shoulder.

"Rest, Mac." He whispered into her hair.

She nodded, even as she felt the dark, warm fog of sleep weigh down her eyelids and settle her mind into stillness. She closed her eyes, sighed. And with Harm sitting beside her, his arm around her shoulder, his hand wrapped in hers, his breath caressing her hair, Mac fell asleep.

-


End file.
